Hector, Louis, and Indiana had gone over the hills to follow the track of a deer which had paid a visit to the young corn, now sprouting and showing symptoms of shooting up to blossom. Catharine usually preferred staying at home, and preparing the meals against their return. She had gathered some fine ripe strawberries, which, with plenty of stewed rice, Indian meal cake, and maple sugar, was to make their dinner. She was weary and warm, for the day had been hot and sultry. Seating herself on the threshold of the door, she leaned her tack against the doorpost, and closed her eyes. Perhaps the poor child's thoughts were wandering back to her far-off, never-to-be-forgotten home, or she might be thinking of the hunters and their game. Suddenly a vague, undefinable feeling of dread stole over her mind: she heard no steps, she felt no breath, she saw no form; but there was a strange consciousness that she was not alone—that some unseen being was near, some eye was upon her. I have heard of sleepers starting from sleep the most profound when the noiseless hand of the assassin has been raised to destroy them, as if the power of the human eye could be felt through the closed lid.

Thus fared it with Catharine: she felt as if some unseen enemy was near her; and, springing to her feet, she cast a wild, troubled glance around. No living being met her eye; and, ashamed of her cowardice, she resumed her seat. The tremulous cry of her little grey squirrel, a pet which she had tamed and taught to run to her and nestle in her bosom, attracted her attention.

"What aileth thee, wee dearie?" she said, tenderly, as the timid little creature crept, trembling, to her breast. "Thy mistress has scared thee by her own foolish fears. See now, there is neither cat-a-mount nor weasel here to seize thee, silly one;" and as she spoke she raised her head, and flung back the thick clusters of soft fair hair that shaded her eyes. The deadly glare of a pair of dark eyes fixed upon her met her terrified gaze, gleaming with sullen ferocity from the angle of the door-post, whence the upper part of the face alone was visible, partly concealed by a mat of tangled, shaggy, black hair. Paralysed with fear, the poor girl neither spoke nor moved; she uttered no cry; but pressing her hands tightly across her breast, as if to still the loud beating of her heart, she sat gazing upon that fearful appearance, while, with stealthy step, the savage advanced from his lurking-place, keeping, as he did so, his eyes riveted upon hers, with such a gaze as the wily serpent is said to fascinate his prey. His hapless victim moved not; whither could she flee to escape one whose fleet foot could so easily have overtaken her in the race? where conceal herself from him whose wary eye fixed upon her seemed to deprive her of all vital energy?

Uttering that singular, expressive guttural which seems with the Indian to answer the purpose of every other exclamation, he advanced, and taking the girl's ice-cold hands in his, tightly bound them with a thong of deer's hide, and led her unresistingly away. By a circuitous path through the ravine they reached the foot of the mount, where lay a birch canoe, rocking gently on the waters, in which a middle-aged female and a young girl were seated. The females asked no questions, and expressed no word indicative of curiosity or surprise, as the strong arm of the Indian lifted his captive into the canoe, and made signs to the elder squaw to push from the shore. When all had taken their places, the woman, catching up a paddle from the bottom of the little vessel, stood up, and with a few rapid strokes sent it skimming over the lake.

The miserable captive, overpowered with the sense of her calamitous situation, bowed down her head upon her knees, and concealing her agitated face in her garments, wept in silent agony. Visions of horror presented themselves to her bewildered brain—all that Indiana had described of the cruelty of this vindictive race, came vividly before her mind. Poor child, what miserable thoughts were thine during that brief voyage!

Had the Indians also captured her friends? or was she alone to be the victim of their vengeance? What would be the feelings of those I beloved ones on returning to their home and finding it desolate! Was there no hope of release? As these ideas chased each other through her agitated mind, she raised her eyes all streaming with tears to the faces of the Indian and his companions with so piteous a look, that any heart but the stoical one of an Indian would have softened at its sad appeal; but no answering glance of sympathy met hers, no eye gave back its silent look of pity—not a nerve or a muscle moved the cold apathetic features of the Indians, and the woe-stricken girl again resumed her melancholy attitude, burying her face in her heaving bosom to hide its bitter emotions from the heartless strangers.

She was not folly aware that it is part of the Indian's education to hide the inward feelings of the heart, to check all those soft and tender emotions which distinguish the civilized man from the savage.

It does indeed need the softening influence of that powerful Spirit, which was shed abroad into the world to turn the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, to break down the strongholds of unrighteousness, and to teach man that he is by nature the child of wrath and victim of sin, and that in his unregenerated nature his whole mind is at enmity with God and his fellow-men, and that in his flesh dwelleth no good thing. And the Indian has acknowledged that power,—he has cast his idols of cruelty and revenge, those virtues on which he prided himself in the blindness of his heart, to the moles and the bats; he has bowed and adored at the foot of the Cross;—but it was not so in the days whereof I have spoken. [FN: Appendix K.]



CHAPTER XII.

"Must this sweet new-blown rose find such, a winter Before her spring be past?" BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

The little bark touched the stony point of Long Island. The Indian lifted his weeping prisoner from the canoe, and motioned to her to move forward along the narrow path that led to the camp, about twenty yards higher up the bank, where there was a little grassy spot enclosed, with shrubby trees—the squaws tarried at the lake-shore to bring up the paddles and secure the canoe.

It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of an enemy, but doubly so, when that enemy is a stranger to the language in which we would plead for mercy—whose God is not our God, nor his laws those by which we ourselves are governed. Thus felt the poor captive as she stood alone, mute with terror among the half-naked dusky forms with which she now found herself surrounded. She cast a hurried glance round that strange assembly, if by chance her eye might rest upon some dear familiar face, but she saw not the kind but grave face of Hector, nor met the bright sparkling eye of her cousin Louis, nor the soft, subdued, pensive features of the Indian girl, her adopted sister—she stood alone among those wild gloomy-looking men; some turned away their eyes as if they would not meet her woe-stricken countenance, lest they should be moved to pity her sad condition; no wonder that, overcome by the sense of her utter friendliness, she hid her face with her fettered hands and wept in despair. But the Indian's sympathy is not moved by tears and sighs; calmness, courage, defiance of danger and contempt of death, are what he venerates and admires even in an enemy.

The Indians beheld her grief unmoved. At length the old man, who seemed to be a chief among the rest, motioned to one of the women who leant against the side of the wigwam, to come forward and lead away the stranger; Catharine, whose senses were beginning to be more collected, heard the old man give orders that she was to be fed and cared for. Gladly did she escape from the presence of those pitiless men, from whose gaze she shrunk with maidenly modesty. And now when alone with the women she hesitated not to make use of that natural language which requires not the aid of speech to make itself understood; clasping her hands imploringly, she knelt at the feet of the Indian woman, her conductress—kissed her dark hands and bathed them with her fast flowing tears, while she pointed passionately to the shore where lay the happy home from which she had been so suddenly torn.

The squaw, though she evidently comprehended the meaning of her imploring gestures, shook her head, and in plaintive earnest tone replied in her own language, that she must go with the canoes to the other shore,—and she pointed to the north as she spoke. She then motioned to the young girl—the same that had been Catharine's companion in the canoe—to bring a hunting knife, which was thrust into one of the folds of the birch-bark of the wigwam. Catharine beheld the deadly weapon in the hands of the Indian woman with a pang of agony as great as if its sharp edge was already at her throat. So young—so young, to die by a cruel bloody death! what had been her crime?—how should she find words to soften the heart of her murderess? The power of utterance seemed denied—she cast herself on her knees and held up her hands in silent prayer; not to the dreaded Indian woman, but to Him who heareth the prayer of the poor destitute—who alone can order the unruly wills and affections of men.

The squaw stretched forth one dark hand and grasped the arm of the terror-struck girl, while the other held the weapon of destruction; with a quick movement she severed the thongs that bound the fettered wrists of the pleading captive, and with a smile that seemed to light up her whole face she raised her from her prostrate position, laid her hand upon her young head, and with an expression of good-humoured surprise lifted the flowing tresses of her sunny hair and spread them over the back of her own swarthy hand; then, as if amused by the striking contrast, she shook down her own jetty-black hair and twined a tress of it with one of the fair haired girl's—then laughed till her teeth shone like pearls within her red lips. Many were the exclamations of childish wonder that broke from the other females, as they compared the snowy arm of the stranger with their own dusky skins; it was plain that they had no intention of harming her, and by degrees distrust and dread of her singular companions began in some measure to subside.

The squaw motioned her to take a seat on a mat beside her, and gave her a handful of parched rice and some deer's flesh to eat; but Catharine's heart was too heavy; she was suffering from thirst, and on pronouncing the Indian word for water, the young girl snatched up a piece of birch-bark from the floor of the tent, and gathering the corners together, ran to the lake, and soon returned with water in this most primitive drinking vessel, which she held to the lips of her guest, and she seemed amused by the long deep draught with which Catharine slaked her thirst; and something like a gleam of hope came over her mind as she marked the look of kindly feeling with which she caught the young Indian girl regarding her, and she strove to overcome the choking sensation that would from time to time rise to her throat, as she fluctuated between hope and fear. The position of the Indian camp was so placed that it was quite hidden from the shore, and neither could Catharine see the mouth of the ravine, nor the steep side of the mount that her brothers were accustomed to ascend and descend in their visits to the lake shore, nor had she any means of making a signal to them even if she had seen them on the beach.

The long, anxious, watchful night passed, and soon after sunrise, while the morning mists still hung over the lake, the canoes of the Indians were launched, and long before noon they were in the mouth of the river. Catharine's heart sunk within her as the fast receding shores of the lake showed each minute fainter in the distance. At midday they halted at a fine bend in the river, where a small open place and a creek flowing down through the woods afforded them cool water; and here they found several tents put up and a larger party awaiting their return. The river was here a fine, broad, deep and tranquil stream; trees of many kinds fringed the edge; beyond was the unbroken forest, whose depths had never been pierced by the step of man—so thick and luxuriant was the vegetation that even the Indian could hardly have penetrated through its dark swampy glades: far as the eye could reach, that impenetrable interminable wall of verdure stretched away into the far off distance.

On that spot where our Indian camp then stood, are now pleasant open meadows, with an avenue of fine pines and balsams; showing on the eminence above, a large substantial dwelling-house surrounded by a luxuriant orchard and garden, the property of a naval officer, [FN: Lt. Rubidge, whose interesting account of his early settlement may be read in a letter inserted in Captain Basil Hall's Letters from Canada.] who with the courage and perseverance that mark brave men of his class, first ventured to break the bush and locate himself and his infant family in the lonely wilderness, then far from any beaten road or the haunts of his fellow-men.

But at the period of which I write, the axe of the adventurous settler had not levelled one trunk of that vast forest, neither had the fire scathed it; no voices of happy joyous children had rung through those shades, nor sound of rural labour nor bleating flock awakened its echoes.

All the remainder of that sad day, Catharine sat on the grass under a shady tree, her eyes mournfully fixed on the slow flowing waters, and wondering at her own hard fate in being thus torn from her home and its dear inmates. Bad as she had thought her separation from her father and mother and her brothers, when she first left her home to become a wanderer on the Rice Lake Plains, how much more dismal now was her situation, snatched from the dear companions who had upheld and cheered her on in all her sorrows! But now she was alone with none to love or cherish or console her, she felt a desolation of spirit that almost made her forgetful of that trust that had hitherto always sustained her in time of trouble or sickness. She looked round, and her eye fell on the strange unseemly forms of men and women, who cared not for her, and to whom she was an object of indifference or aversion: she wept when she thought of the grief that her absence would occasion to Hector and Louis; the thought of their distress increased her own.

The soothing quiet of the scene, with the low lulling sound of the little brook as its tiny wavelets fell tinkling over the massy roots and stones that impeded its course to the river, joined with fatigue and long exposure to the sun and air, caused her at length to fall asleep. The last rosy light of the setting sun was dyeing the waters with a glowing tint when she awoke; a soft blue haze hung upon the trees; the kingfisher and dragon-fly, and a solitary loon, were the only busy things abroad on the river; the first darting up and down from an upturned root near the water's edge, feeding its youngings; the dragon-fly hawking with rapid whirring sound for insects, and the loon, just visible from above the surface of the still stream, sailed quietly on companionless, like her who watched its movements.

The bustle of the hunters returning with game and fish to the encampment roused many a sleepy brown papoose, the fires were renewed, and the evening meal was now preparing,—and Catharine, chilled by the falling dew, crept to the enlivening warmth. And here she was pleased at being recognised by one friendly face—it was the mild and benevolent countenance of the widow Snowstorm, who, with her three sons, came to bid her to share their camp fire and food. The kindly grasp of the hand, the beaming smile that was given by this good creature, albeit she was ugly and ill-featured, cheered the sad captive's heart. She had given her a cup of cold water and what food her log-cabin afforded, and in return the good Indian took her to her wigwam and fed, and warmed, and cherished her with the loving-kindness of a Christian; and during all her sojourn in the Indian camp she was as a tender mother over her, drying her tears and showing her those little acts of attention that even the untaught Indians know are grateful to the sorrowful and destitute. Catharine often forgot her own griefs to repay this worthy creature's kindness, by attending to her little babe and assisting her in some of her homely preparations of cookery or household work. She knew that a selfish indulgence in sorrow would do her no good, and after the lapse of some days she so well disciplined her own heart as to check her tears at least in the presence of the Indian women, and to assume an air of comparative cheerfulness. Once she found Indian words enough to ask the Indian widow to convey her back to the lake, but she shook her head and bade her not think anything about it; and added, that in the fall, when the ducks came to the rice-beds, they should all return, and then if she could obtain leave from the chief, she would restore her to her lodge on the plains; but signified to her that patience was her only present remedy, and that submission to the will of the chief was her wisest plan. Comforted by this vague promise, Catharine strove to be reconciled to her strange lot, and still stranger companions. She could not help being surprised at the want of curiosity respecting her that was shown by the Indians in the wigwam, when she was brought thither; they appeared to take little notice that a stranger and one so dissimilar to themselves had been introduced into the camp, for before her they asked no questions about her, whatever they might do when she was absent, though they surveyed her with silent attention. Catharine learned, by long acquaintance with this people, that an outward manifestation of surprise [FN: See Appendix L.] is considered a want of etiquette and good breeding, or rather a proof of weakness and childishness. The women, like other females, are certainly less disposed to repress this feeling of inquisitiveness than the men, and one of their great sources of amusement, when Catharine was among them, was examining the difference of texture and colour of her skin and hair, and holding long consultations over them. The young girl and her mother, those who had paddled the canoe the day she was carried away to the island, showed her much kindness in a quiet way. The young squaw was granddaughter to the old chief, and seemed to be regarded with considerable respect by the rest of the women; she was a gay lively creature, often laughing, and seemed to enjoy an inexhaustible fund of good humour. She was inclined to extend her patronage to the young stranger, making her eat out of her own bark dish, and sit beside her on her own mat. She wove a chain of the sweet-scented grass with which the Indians delight in adorning themselves, likewise in perfuming their lodges with bunches or strewings upon the floor. She took great pains in teaching her how to acquire the proper attitude of sitting, after the fashion of the Eastern nations, which position the Indian women assume when at rest in their wigwams. The Indian name of this little damsel signified the Snow-bird. She was, like that lively restless bird, always flitting to and fro from tent to tent, as garrulous and as cheerful too as that merry little herald of the spring.

Once she seemed particularly attracted by Catharine's dress, which she examined with critical minuteness, evincing great surprise at the cut fringes of dressed doeskin with which Indiana had ornamented the border of the short jacket which she had manufactured for Catharine. These fringes she pointed out to the notice of the women, and even the old chief was called in to examine the dress; nor did the leggings and mocassins escape their observation. There was something mysterious about her garments. Catharine was at a loss to imagine what caused those deep guttural exclamations, somewhat between a grunt and a groan, that burst from the lips of the Indians, as they one by one examined them with deep attention. These people had recognised in these things the peculiar fashion and handiwork of the young Mohawk girl whom they had exposed to perish by hunger and thirst on Bare Hill, and much their interest was excited to know by what means Catharine had become possessed of a dress wrought by the hand of one whom they had numbered with the dead. Strange and mysterious did it seem to them, and warily did they watch the unconscious object of their wonder.

The knowledge that she possessed of the language of her friend Indiana, enabled Catharine to comprehend a great deal of what was said; yet she prudently refrained from speaking in the tongue of one, to whose whole nation she knew these people to be hostile, but she sedulously endeavoured to learn their own peculiar dialect, and in this she succeeded in an incredibly short time, so that she was soon able to express her own wants, and converse a little with the females who were about her.

She had noticed that among the tents there was one which stood apart from the rest, and was only visited by the old chief and his granddaughter, or by the elder women. At first she imagined it was some sick person, or a secret tent set apart for the worship of the Great Spirit; but one day when the chief of the people had gone up the river hunting, and the children were asleep, she perceived the curtain of skins drawn back, and a female of singular and striking beauty appeared standing in the open space in front. She was habited in a fine tunic of white dressed doeskin richly embroidered with coloured beads and stained quills, a full petticoat of dark cloth bound with scarlet descended to her ancles, leggings fringed with deer-skin knotted with bands of coloured quills, with richly wrought mocassins on her feet. On her head she wore a coronet of scarlet and black feathers; her long shining tresses of raven hair descended to her waist, each thick tress confined with a braided band of quills dyed scarlet and blue; her stature was tall and well-formed; her large, liquid, dark eye wore an expression so proud and mournful that Catharine felt her own involuntarily fill with tears as she gazed upon this singular being. She would have approached nearer to her, but a spell seemed on her; she shrunk back timid and abashed beneath that wild melancholy glance. It was she, the Beam of the Morning, the self-made widow of the young Mohawk, whose hand had wrought so fearful a vengeance on the treacherous destroyer of her brother. She stood there, at the tent door, arrayed in her bridal robes, as on the day when she received her death-doomed victim. And when she recalled her fearful deed, shuddering with horror, Catharine drew back and shrouded herself within the tent, fearing again to fall under the eye of that terrible woman. She remembered how Indiana had told her that since that fatal marriage-feast she had been kept apart from the rest of the tribe,—she was regarded by her people as a sacred character, a great Medicine, a female brave, a being whom they regarded with mysterious reverence. She had made this great sacrifice for the good of her nation. Indiana said it was believed among her own folks that she had loved the young Mohawk passionately, as a tender woman loves the husband of her youth; yet she had hesitated not to sacrifice him with her own hand. Such was the deed of the Indian heroine—and such were the virtues of the unregenerated Greeks and Romans!



CHAPTER XIII.

"Now where the wave, with loud unquiet song, Dash'd o'er the rocky channel, froths along, Or where the silver waters soothed to rest, The tree's tall shadow sleeps upon its breast." COLERIDGE.

The Indian camp remained for nearly three weeks on this spot, [FN: Now known by the name of Cambelltown, though, there is but one log-house and some pasture fields; it is a spot long used as a calling place for the steamer that plies on the Otoanbee, between Gore's Landing on the Rice Lake and Peterborough, to take in fire-wood.] and then early one morning the wigwams were all taken down, and the canoes, six in number, proceeded up the river. There was very little variety in the scenery to interest Catharine; the river still kept its slow flowing course between low shores, thickly clothed with trees, without an opening through which the eye might pierce to form an idea of the country beyond; not a clearing, not a sight or sound of civilized man was there to be seen or heard; the darting flight of the wild birds as they flitted across from one side to the other, the tapping of the woodpeckers or shrill cry of the blue jay, was all that was heard, from sunrise to sunset, on that monotonous voyage. After many hours a decided change was perceived in the current, which ran at a considerable increase of swiftness, so that it required the united energy of both men and women to keep the light vessels from drifting down the river again. They were in the Rapids, [FN: Formerly known as Whitla's Rapids, now the site of the Locks.] and it was hard work to stem the tide, and keep the upward course of the waters. At length the rapids were passed, and the weary Indian voyagers rested for a space on the bosom of a small but tranquil lake. [FN: The little lake about a mile below Peterborough and above the Locks, formerly girt in by woods of pine and beech and maple, now entirely divested of trees and forming part of the suburbs of the town. ] The rising moon shed her silvery light upon the calm waters, and heaven's stars shone down into its quiet depths, as the canoes with their dusky freight parted the glittering rays with their light paddles. As they proceeded onward the banks rose on either side, still fringed with pine, cedar and oaks. At an angle of the lake the banks on either side ran out into two opposite peninsulas, forming a narrow passage or gorge, contracting the lake once more into the appearance of a broad river, much wider from shore to shore than any other part they had passed through since they had left the entrance at the Rice Lake.

Catharine became interested in the change of scenery, her eye dwelt with delight on the forms of glorious spreading oaks and lofty pines, green cliff-like shores and low wooded islands; while as they proceeded the sound of rapid flowing waters met her ear, and soon the white and broken eddies rushing along with impetuous course were seen by the light of the moon; and while she was wondering if the canoes were to stem those rapids, at a signal from the old chief, the little fleet was pushed to shore on a low flat of emerald verdure nearly opposite to the last island. [FN: Over the Otonabee, just between the rapids and the island, a noble and substantial bridge has been built.]

Here, under the shelter of some beautiful spreading black oaks, the women prepared to set up their wigwams. They had brought the poles and birch-bark covering from the encampment below, and soon all was bustle and business; unloading the canoes, and raising the tents. Even Catharine lent a willing hand to assist the females in bringing up the stores, and sundry baskets containing fruits and other small wares. She then kindly attended to the Indian children, certain dark-skinned babes, who, bound upon their wooden cradles, were either set up against the trunks of the trees, or swung to some lowly depending branch, there to remain helpless and uncomplaining spectators of the scene.

Catharine thought these Indian babes were almost as much to be pitied as herself, only that they were unconscious of their imprisoned state, having from birth been used to no better treatment, and moreover they were sure to be rewarded by the tender caresses of living mothers when the season of refreshment and repose arrived; but she alas! was friendless and alone, an orphan girl, reft of father, mother, kindred and friends. One Father, one Friend, poor Catharine, thou hadst, even He—the Father of the fatherless.

That night when the women and children were sleeping, Catharine stole out of the wigwam, and climbed the precipitous bank beneath the shelter of which the lodges had been erected. She found herself upon a grassy plain, studded with majestic oaks and pines, so beautifully grouped that they might have been planted by the hand of taste upon that velvet turf. It was a delightful contrast to those dense dark forests through which for so many many miles the waters of the Otonabee had flowed on monotonously; here it was all wild and free, dashing along like a restive steed rejoicing in its liberty, uncurbed and tameless.

Yes, here it was beautiful! Catharine gazed with joy upon the rushing river, and felt her own heart expand as she marked its rapid course, as it bounded murmuring and fretting over its rocky bed. "Happy, glorious waters! you are not subject to the power of any living creature, no canoe can ascend those surging waves; I would that I too, like thee, were free to pursue my onward way—how soon would I flee away and be at rest!" Such thoughts perhaps might have passed through the mind of the lonely captive girl, as she sat at the foot of one giant oak, and looked abroad over those moonlit waters, till, oppressed by the overwhelming sense of the utter loneliness of the scene, the timid girl with faltering step hurried down once more to the wigwams, silently crept to the mat where her bed was spread, and soon forgot all her woes and wanderings in deep tranquil sleep.

Catharine wondered that the Indians in erecting their lodges always seemed to prefer the low, level, and often swampy grounds by the lakes and rivers in preference to the higher and more healthy elevations. So disregardful are they of this circumstance, that they do not hesitate to sleep where the ground is saturated with moisture. They will then lay a temporary flooring of cedar or any other bark beneath their feet, rather than remove the tent a few feet higher up, where a drier soil may always be found. This either arises from stupidity or indolence, perhaps from both, but it is no doubt the cause of much of the sickness that prevails among, them. With his feet stretched to the fire the Indian cares for nothing else when reposing in his wigwam, and it is useless to urge the improvement that might be made in his comfort; he listens with a face of apathy, and utters his everlasting guttural, which saves him the trouble of a more rational reply.

"Snow-bird" informed Catharine that the lodges would not again be removed for some time, but that the men would hunt and fish, while the squaws pursued their domestic labours. Catharine perceived that the chief of the laborious part of the work fell to the share of the females, who were very much more industrious and active than their husbands; these, when not out hunting or fishing, were to be seen reposing in easy indolence under the shade of the trees, or before the tent fires, giving themselves little concern about anything that was going on. The squaws were gentle, humble, and submissive; they bore without a murmur pain, labour, hunger, and fatigue, and seemed to perform every task with patience and good humour. They made the canoes, in which the men sometimes assisted them, pitched the tents, converted the skins of the animals which the men shot into clothes, cooked the victuals, manufactured baskets of every kind, wove mats, dyed the quills of the porcupine, sewed the mocassins, and in short performed a thousand tasks which it would be difficult to enumerate.

Of the ordinary household work, such as is familiar to European females, they of course knew nothing; they had no linen to wash or iron, no floors to clean, no milking of cows, nor churning of butter.

Their carpets were fresh cedar boughs spread upon the ground, and only renewed when they became offensively dirty from the accumulation of fish bones and other offal, which are carelessly flung down during meals. Of furniture they had none, their seat the ground, their table the same, their beds mats or skins of animals,—such were the domestic arrangements of the Indian camp. [FN: Much improvement has taken place of late years in the domestic economy of the Indians, and some of their dwellings are clean and neat even for Europeans.] In the tent to which Catharine belonged, which was that of the widow and her sons, a greater degree of order and cleanliness prevailed than in any other, for Catharine's natural love of neatness and comfort induced her to strew the floor with fresh cedar or hemlock every day or two, and to sweep round the front of the lodge, removing all unseemly objects from its vicinity. She never failed to wash herself in the river, and arrange her hair with the comb that Louis had made for her; and took great care of the little child, which she kept clean and well fed. She loved this little creature, for it was soft and gentle, meek and playful as a little squirrel, and the Indian mothers all looked with kinder eyes upon the white maiden, for the loving manner in which she tended their children. The heart of woman is seldom cold to those who cherish their offspring, and Catharine began to experience the truth, that the exercise of those human charities is equally beneficial to those who give and those that receive; these things fall upon the heart as dew upon a thirsty soil, giving and creating a blessing. But we will leave Catharine for a short season, among the lodges of the Indians, and return to Hector and Louis.



CHAPTER XIV.

"Cold and forsaken, destitute of friends, And all good comforts else, unless some tree Whose speechless chanty doth better ours, With which the bitter east-winds made their sport And sang through hourly, hath invited thee To shelter half a day. Shall she be thus, And I draw in soft slumbers?" BRAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

It was near sunset before Hector and his cousin returned on the evening of the eventful day that had found Catharine a prisoner on Long Island. They had met with good success in hunting, and brought home a fine half-grown fawn, fat and in good order. They were surprised at finding the fire nearly extinguished, and no Catharine awaiting their return. There, it is true, was the food that she had prepared for them, but she was not to be seen; supposing that she had been tired of waiting for them, and had gone out to gather strawberries, they did not at first feel very anxious, but ate some of the rice and honey, for they were hungry with long fasting; and taking some Indian meal cake in their hands, they went out to call her in, but no trace of her was visible. They now became alarmed, fearing that she had set off by herself to seek them, and had missed her way home again.

They hurried back to the happy valley—she was not there; to Pine-tree Point—no trace of her there; to the edge of the mount that overlooked the lake—no, she was not to be seen; night found them still unsuccessful in their search. Sometimes they fancied that she had seated herself beneath some tree and fallen asleep; but no one imagined the true cause, having seen nothing of the Indians.

Again they retraced their steps back to the house; but they found her not there. They continued their unavailing search till the moon setting left them in darkness, and they laid down to rest, but not to sleep. The first streak of dawn saw them again hurrying to and fro, calling in vain upon the name of the loved and lost companion of their wanderings. Desolation had fallen upon their house, and the evil which of all others they had most feared, had happened to them.

Indiana, whose vigilance was more untiring, for she yielded not so easily to grief and despair, now returned with the intelligence that she had discovered the Indian trail, through the big ravine to the lake shore; she had found the remains of a wreath of oak leaves which had been woven by Catharine, and probably been about her hair; and she had seen the mark of feet, Indian feet, on the soft clay, at the edge of the lake, and the furrowing of the shingles by the pushing off of a canoe. It was evident that she had been taken away from her home by these people. Poor Louis gave way to transports of grief and despair; he knew the wreath, it was such as Catharine often made for herself, and Mathilde, and petite Louise, and Marie; his mother had taught her to make them; they were linked together by the stalks, and formed a sort of leaf chain. The remembrance of many of their joyous days of childhood made Louis weep sorrowful tears for happy days, never to return again; he placed the torn relic in his breast, and sadly turned away to hide his grief from Hector and the Indian girl.

Indiana now proposed searching the island for further traces, but advised wariness in so doing. They saw, however, no smoke nor canoes. The Indians had departed while they were searching the ravines and flats round Mount Ararat, and the lake told no tales, The following day they ventured to land on Long Island, and on going to the north side saw evident traces of a temporary encampment having been made. This was all they could do, further search was unavailing; as they found no trace of any violence having been committed, they still cherished hopes that no personal harm had been done to the poor captive, It was Indiana's opinion that, though a prisoner, she was unhurt, as the Indians rarely killed women and children, unless roused to do so by some signal act on the part of their enemies, when an exterminating spirit of revenge induced them to kill and spare not; but where no offence had been offered, they were not likely to take the life of an helpless, unoffending female.

The Indian is not cruel for the wanton love of blood, but to gratify revenge for some injury done to himself, or to his tribe; but it was difficult to still the terrible apprehensions that haunted the minds of Louis and Hector. They spent much time in searching the northern shores and the distant islands, in the vain hope of finding her, as they still thought the camp might have been moved to the opposite side of the lake.

Inconsolable for the loss of their beloved companion, Hector and Louis no longer took interest in what was going on; they hardly troubled themselves to weed the Indian corn, in which they had taken such great delight; all now seemed to them flat, stale, and unprofitable; they wandered listlessly to and fro, silent and sad; the sunshine had departed from their little dwelling; they ate little, and talked less, each seeming absorbed in his own painful reveries.

In vain the gentle Indian girl strove to revive their drooping spirits; they seemed insensible to her attentions, and often left her for hours alone. They returned one evening about the usual hour of sunset, and missed their meek, uncomplaining guest from the place she was wont to occupy. They called, but there was none to reply—she too was gone. They hurried to the shore just time enough to see the canoe diminishing to a mere speck upon the waters, in the direction of the mouth of the river; they called to her in accents of despair, to return, but the wind wafted back no sound to their ears, and soon the bark was lost to sight, and they sat them down disconsolately on the shore.

"What is she doing?" said Hector; "this is cruel to abandon us thus."

"She has gone up the river, with the hope of bringing us some tidings of Catharine," said Louis. "How came you to think that such is her intention?"

"I heard her say the other day that she would go and bring her back, or die."

"What! do you think she would risk the vengeance of the old chief whose life she attempted to take?"

"She is a brave girl; she does not fear pain or death to serve those she loves."

"Alas!" said Hector, "she will perish miserably and to no avail; they would not restore our dear sister, even at the sacrifice of Indiana's life."

"How can she, unprotected and alone, dare such perils? Why did she not tell us? we would have shared her danger."

"She feared for our lives more than for her own; that poor Indian girl has a noble heart. I care not now what befals us, we have lost all that made life dear to us," said Louis gloomily, sinking his head between his knees.

"Hush, Louis, you are older than I, and ought to bear these trials with more courage. It was our own fault, Indiana's leaving us, we left her so much alone to pine after her lost companion; she seemed to think that we did not care for her. Poor Indiana, she must have felt lonely and sad." "I tell you what we will do, Hec.—make a log canoe. I found an old battered one lying on the shore, not far from Pine-tree Point; we have an axe and a tomahawk,—what should hinder us from making one like it?"

"True! we will set about it to-morrow."

"I wish it were morning, that we might set to work to cut down a good pine for the purpose."

"As soon as it is done, we will go up the river; anything is better than this dread suspense and inaction."

The early dawn saw the two cousins busily engaged chopping at a tree of suitable dimensions, and they worked hard all that day, and the next, and the next, before the canoe was hollowed out, and then, owing to their inexperience and the bluntness of their tools, their first attempt proved abortive; it was too heavy at one end, and did not balance well in the water.

Louis, who had been quite sure of success, was disheartened; not so Hector.

"Do not let us give it up; my maxim is perseverance; let us try again, and again—aye! and a third and a fourth time. I say, never give it up, that is the way to succeed at last."

"You have ten times my patience, Hec." "Yes! but you are more ingenious than I, and are excellent at starting an idea."

"We are a good pair then for partnership."

"We will begin anew; and this time I hope we shall profit by our past blunders."

"Who would imagine that it is now more than a month since we lost Catharine!"

"I know it, a long, long, weary month," replied Louis, and he struck his axe sharply into the bark of the pine as he spoke, and remained silent for some minutes. The boys, wearied by chopping down the tree, rested from their work, and sat down on the side of the condemned canoe to resume their conversation. Suddenly Louis grasped Hector's arm, and pointed to a bark canoe that appeared making for the westernmost point of the island. Hector started to his feet, exclaiming, "It is Indiana returned!"

"Nonsense! Indiana!—it is no such thing. Look you, it is a stout man in a blanket coat."

"The Indians?" asked Hector inquiringly.

"I do not think he looks like an Indian; but let us watch. What is he doing?"

"Fishing. See now, he has just caught a fine bass—another—he has great luck-now he is pushing the canoe ashore."

"That man does not move like an Indian—hark! he is whistling. I ought to know that tune. It sounds like the old chanson my father used to sing;" and Louis, raising his voice, began to sing the words of an old French Canadian song, which we will give in the English as we heard it sung by an old lumberer.

"Down by those banks where the pleasant waters flow, Through the wild woods we'll wander, and we'll chase the buffalo. And we'll chase the buffalo."

"Hush, Louis! you will bring the man over to us," said Hector.

"The very thing I am trying to do mon ami. This is our country, and that may be his; but we are lords here, and two to one—so I think he will not be likely to treat us ill. I am a man now, and so are you, and he is but one, so he must mind how he affronts us," replied Louis laughing.

"I wish the old fellow was inclined to be sociable. Hark, if he is not singing now! aye, and the very chorus of the old song,"—and Louis raised his voice to its highest pitch as he repeated,

"Through the wild woods well wander, And well chase the buffalo— And we'll chase the buffalo."

"What a pity I have forgotten the rest of that dear old song. I used to listen with open ears to it when I was a boy. I never thought to hear it again, and to hear it here of all places in the world!"

"Come, let us go on with our work," said Hector, with something like impatience in his voice; and the strokes of his axe fell once more in regular succession on the log; but Louis's eye was still on the mysterious fisher, whom he could discern lounging on the grass and smoking his pipe. "I do not think he sees or hears us," said Louis to himself, "but I think I'll manage to bring him over soon"—and he set himself busily to work to scrape up the loose chips and shavings, and soon began to strike fire with his knife and flint.

"What are you about, Louis?" asked Hector. "Lighting a fire."

"It is warm enough without a fire, I am sure."

"I know that, but I want to attract the notice of yonder tiresome fisherman."

"And perhaps bring a swarm of savages down upon us, who may be lurking in the bushes of the island."

"Pooh, pooh! Hec.:—there are no savages. I am weary of this place—anything is better than this horrible solitude." And Louis fanned the flame into a rapid blaze, and heaped up the light dry branches till it soared up among the bushes. Louis watched the effect of his fire, and rubbed his hands gleefully as the bark canoe was pushed off from the island, and a few vigorous strokes of the paddle sent it dancing over the surface of the calm lake.

Louis waved his cap above his head with a cheer of welcome as the vessel lightly glided into the little cove, near the spot where the boys were chopping, and a stout-framed, weather-beaten man, in a blanket coat, also faded and weather-beaten, with a red worsted sash and worn mocassins, sprung upon one of the timbers of Louis's old raft, and gazed with a keen eye upon the lads. Each party silently regarded the other. A few rapid interrogations from the stranger, uttered in the broad patois of the Lower Province, were answered in a mixture of broken French and English by Louis.

A change like lightning passed over the face of the old man as he cried out—"Louis Perron, son of my ancient compagnon."

"Oui! oui!"—with eyes sparkling through tears of joy, Louis threw himself into the broad breast of Jacob Morelle, his father's friend and old lumbering comrade.

"Hector, son of la belle Catharine Perron,—and Hector, in his turn, received the affectionate embrace of the warm-hearted old man.

"Who would have thought of meeting with the children of my old comrade here at the shore of the Rice Lake?—oh! what a joyful meeting!"

Jacob had a hundred questions to ask: Where were their parents? did they live on the Plains now? how long was it since they had left the Cold Springs? were there any more little ones? and so forth.

The boys looked sorrowfully at each other. At last the old man stopped for want of breath, and remarked their sad looks.

"What, mes fils, are your parents dead? Ah well! I did not think to have outlived them; but they have not led such healthy lives as old Jacob Morelle—hunting, fishing, lumbering, trapping,—those are the things to harden a man and make him as tough as a stock-fish—eh! mes enfans, is it not so?"

Hector then told the old lumberer how long they had been separated from their families, and by what sad accident they had been deprived of the society of their beloved sister. When they brought their narrative down to the disappearance of Catharine, the whole soul of the old trapper seemed moved—he started from the log on which they were sitting, and with one of his national asseverations, declared "That la bonne fille should not remain an hour longer than he could help among those savage wretches. Yes, he, her father's old friend, would go up the river and bring her back in safety, or leave his grey scalp behind him among the wigwams."

"It is too late, Jacob, to think of starting today," said Hector. "Come home with us, and eat some food, and rest a bit."

"No need of that, my son. I have a lot of fish here in the canoe, and there is an old shanty on the island yonder, if it be still standing,—the Trapper's Fort I used to call it some years ago. We will go off to the island and look for it."

"No need for that," replied Louis, "for though I can tell you the old place is still in good repair, for we used it this very spring as a boiling house for our maple sap, yet we have a better place of our own nearer at hand—just two or three hundred yards over the brow of yonder hill. So come with us, and you shall have a good supper, and bed to lie upon."

"And you have all these, boys!" said Jacob opening his merry black eyes, as they came in sight of the little log-house and the field of green corn. The old man praised the boys for their industry and energy. "Ha! here is old Wolfe too," as the dog roused himself from the hearth and gave one of his low grumbling growls. He had grown dull and dreamy, and instead of going out as usual with the young hunters, he would lie for hours dozing before the dying embers of the fire. He pined for the loving hand that used to pat his sides, and caress his shaggy neck, and pillow his great head upon her lap, or suffer him to put his huge paws upon her shoulders, while he licked her hands and face; but she was gone, and the Indian girl was gone, and the light of the shanty had gone with them. Old Wolfe seemed dying of sorrow.

That evening as Jacob sat on the three-legged stool, smoking his short Indian pipe, he again would have the whole story of their wanderings over, and the history of all their doings and contrivances.

"And how far, mes enfans, do you think you are from the Cold Springs?"

"At least twenty miles, perhaps fifty, for it is a long long time now since we left home, three summers ago."

"Well, boys, you must not reckon distance by the time you have been absent," said the old "Now I know the distance through the woods, for I have passed through them on the Indian trail, and by my reckoning as the bee flies, it cannot be more than seven or eight miles—no, nor that either."

The boys opened their eyes. "Jacob, is this possible? So near, and yet to us the distance has been as great as though it were a hundred miles or more."

"I tell you what, boys, that is the provoking part of it. I remember when I was out on the St. John's, lumbering, missing my comrades, and I was well-nigh starving, when I chanced to come back to the spot where we parted; and I verily believe I had not been two miles distant the whole eight days that I was moving round and round, and backward and forward, just in a circle, because, d'ye see, I followed the sun, and that led me astray the whole time."

"Was that when you well-nigh roasted the bear?" asked Louis, with a sly glance at Hector.

"Well, no; that was another time; your father was out with me then." And old Jacob, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, settled himself to recount the adventure of the bear. Hector, who had heard Louis's edition of the roast bear, was almost impatient at being forced to listen to old Jacob's long-winded history, which included about a dozen other stories, all tagged on to this, like links of a lengthened chain; and was not sorry when the old lumberer, taking his red nightcap out of his pocket, at last stretched himself out on a buffalo skin that he had brought up from the canoe, and soon was soundly sleeping.

The morning was yet grey when the old man shook himself from his slumber, which, if not deep, had been loud; and after having roused up a good fire, which, though the latter end of July, at that dewy hour was not unwelcome, he lighted his pipe, and began broiling a fish on the coals for his breakfast; and was thus engaged when Hector and Louis wakened.

"Mes enfans," said Jacob, "I have been turning over in my mind about your sister, and have come to the resolution of going up the river alone without any one to accompany me. I know the Indians; they are a suspicious people, they deal much in stratagems, and they are apt to expect treachery in others. Perhaps they have had some reason; for the white men have not always kept good faith with them, which I take to be the greater shame, as they have God's laws to guide and teach them to be true and just in their dealing, which the poor benighted heathen have not, the more's the pity. Now, d'ye see, if the Indians see two stout lads with me, they will say to themselves, there may be more left behind, skulking in ambush. So, boys, I go to the camp alone; and, God willing, I will bring back your sister, or die in the attempt. I shall not go single-handed; see, I have here scarlet-cloth, beads, and powder and shot. I carry no firewater; it is a sin and a shame to tempt these poor wretches to their own destruction; it makes fiends of them at once."

It was to no purpose that Hector and Louis passionately besought old Jacob to let them share the dangers of the expedition; the old man was firm, and would not be moved from his purpose.

"Look you, boys," he said, "if I do not return by the beginning of the rice harvest, you may suppose that evil has befallen me and the girl; then I would advise you to take care for your own safety, for if they do not respect my grey head, neither will they spare your young ones. In such case, make yourselves a good canoe—a dug-out [FN: Log canoe.] will do—and go down the lake till you are stopped by the rapids; [FN: Crook's Rapids.] make a portage there; but as your craft is too weighty to carry far, e'en leave her and chop out another, and go down to the Falls; [FN: Heeley's Falls, on the Trent.] then, if you do not like to be at any further trouble, you may make out your journey to the Bay [FN: Bay Quinte.] on foot, coasting along the river; there you will fall in with settlers who know old Jacob Morelle—aye, and your two fathers—and they will put you in the way of returning home. If I were to try ever so to put you on the old Indian trail in the woods, though I know it myself right well, you might be lost, and maybe never return home again. I leave my traps and my rifle with you; I shall not need them: if I come back I may claim the things; if not, they are yours. So now I have said my say, had my talk, as the Indians say. Farewell. But first let us pray to Him who alone can bring this matter to a safe issue." And the old man devoutly kneeled down, and prayed for a blessing on his voyage and on those he was leaving; and then hastened down to the beach, and the boys, with full hearts, watched the canoe till it was lost to their sight on the wide waters of the lake.



CHAPTER XV.

"Where wild in woods the lordly savage ran." DRYDEN.

What changes a few years make in places! That spot over which the Indians roved, free of all control, is now a large and wide-spreading town. Those glorious old trees are fast fading away, the memory only of them remains to some of the first settlers, who saw them twenty-five years ago, shadowing the now open market-place; the fine old oaks have disappeared, but the green emerald turf that they once shaded still remains. The wild rushing river still pours down its resistless spring floods, but its banks have been levelled, and a noble bridge now spans its rapid waters. It has seen the destruction of two log-bridges, but this new, substantial, imposing structure bids fair to stand from generation to generation. The Indian regards it with stupid wonder: he is no mechanic; his simple canoe of birch bark is his only notion of communication from one shore to another. The towns-people and country settlers view it with pride and satisfaction, as a means of commerce and agricultural advantage. That lonely hill, from which Catharine viewed the rapid-flowing river by moonlight, and marvelled at its beauty and its power, is now the Court-house Hill, the seat of justice for the district,—a fine, substantial edifice; its shining roof and pillared portico may be seen from every approach to the town. That grey village spire, with its groves of oak and pine, how invitingly it stands! those trees that embower it, once formed a covert for the deer. Yonder scattered groups of neat white cottages, each with its garden of flowers and fruit, are spread over what was once an open plain, thinly planted with poplar, oaks, and pine. See, there is another church; and nearer, towards the west end of the town, on that fine slope, stands another, and another. That sound that falls upon the ear is not the rapids of the river, but the dash of mill wheels and mill dams, worked by the waters of that lovely winding brook which has travelled far through woods and deep forest dingles to yield its tribute to the Otonabee. There is the busy post-office, on the velvet carpet of turf; a few years, yes, even a few years ago, that spot was a grove of trees. The neat log building that stood then alone there, was inhabited by the Government Agent, now Colonel Macdonald, and groups of Indians might be seen congregated on the green, or reposing under the trees, forming meet subjects for the painter's pencil, for he knew them well, and was kind to them.

The Indian only visits the town, once the favourite site for his hunting lodge, to receive his annual government presents, to trade his simple wares of basket and birch-bark work, to bring in his furs, or maybe to sell his fish or venison, and take back such store goods as his intercourse with his white brethren has made him consider necessary to his comforts, to supply wants which have now become indispensable, before undreamed of. He traverses those populous, busy streets, he looks round upon dwellings, and gay clothes, and equipages, and luxuries which he can neither obtain nor imitate; and feels his spirit lowered—he is no more a people—the tide of intellect has borne him down, and swept his humble wigwam from the earth. He, too, is changing: he now dwells, for the most part, in villages, in houses that cannot be moved away at his will or necessity; he has become a tiller of the ground, his hunting expeditions are prescribed within narrow bounds, the forest is disappearing, the white man is everywhere. The Indian must also yield to circumstances; he submits patiently. Perhaps he murmurs in secret; but his voice is low, it is not heard; he has no representative in the senate to take interest in his welfare, to plead in his behalf. He is anxious, too, for the improvement of his race: he gladly listens to the words of life, and sees with joy his children being brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord; he sees with pride some of his own blood going forth on the mission of love to other distant tribes; he is proud of being a Christian; and if there be some that still look back to the freedom of former years, and talk of "the good old times," when they wandered free as the winds and waters through those giant woods, they are fast fading away. A new race is rising up, and the old hunter will soon become a being unknown in Canada.

There is an old gnarled oak that stands, or lately stood, on the turfy bank, just behind the old Government-house (as the settlers called it), looking down the precipitous cliff on the river and the islands. The Indians called it "the white girl's rest," for it was there that Catharine delighted to sit, above the noise and bustle of the camp, to sing her snatches of old Scottish songs, or pray the captive exile's prayer, unheard and unseen.

The setting sun was casting long shadows of oak and weeping elm athwart the waters of the river; the light dip of the paddle had ceased on the water, the baying of hounds and life-like stirring sounds from the lodges came softened to the listening ear. The hunters had come in with the spoils of a successful chase; the wigwam fires are flickering and crackling, sending up their light columns of thin blue smoke among the trees; and now a goodly portion of venison is roasting on the forked sticks before the fires. Each lodge has its own cooking utensils. That jar embedded in the hot embers contains sassafras tea, an aromatic beverage, in which the squaws delight when they are so fortunate as to procure a supply. This has been brought from the Credit, far up in the west, by a family who have come down on a special mission from some great chief to his brethren on the Otonabee, and the squaws have cooked some in honour of the guests. That pot that sends up such a savoury steam is venison pottage, or soup, or stew, or any name you choose to give the Indian mess that is concocted of venison, wild rice, and herbs. Those tired hounds that lay stretched before the fire have been out, and now they enjoy the privilege of the fire, some praise from the hunters, and receive withal an occasional reproof from the squaws, if they approach their wishful noses too close to the tempting viands.

The elder boys are shooting at a mark on yonder birch-tree; the girls are playing or rolling on the grass; "The Snow-bird" is seated on the floor of the wigwam braiding a necklace of sweet grass, which she confines in links by means of little bands of coloured quills; Catharine is working mocassins beside her;—a dark shadow falls across her work from the open tent door—an exclamation of surprise and displeasure from one of the women makes Catharine raise her eyes to the doorway; there, silent, pale, and motionless, the mere shadow of her former self, stands Indiana—a gleam of joy lights for an instant her large lustrous eyes. Amazement and delight at the sight of her beloved friend for a moment deprives Catharine of the power of speech; then terror for the safety of her friend takes place of her joy at seeing her. She rises regardless of the angry tones of the Indian woman's voice, and throws her arms about Indiana as if to shield her from threatened anger, and sobs her welcome in her arms.

"Indiana, dear sister! how came you hither, and for what purpose?"

"To free you, and then die," was the soft low tremulous answer. "Follow me." Catharine, wondering at the calm and fearless manner with which the young Mohawk waved back the dusky matron who approached as if with the design of laying hands upon her unwelcome guest, followed with beating heart till they stood in the entrance of the lodge of the Bald Eagle; it was filled with the hunters, who were stretched on skins on the floor reposing in quiet after the excitement of the chase.

The young Mohawk bent her head down and crossed her arms, an attitude of submission, over her breast as she stood in the opening of the lodge; but she spoke no word till the old chief waving back the men, who starting to their feet were gathering round him as if to shield him from danger, and sternly regarding her, demanded from whence she came and for what purpose.

"To submit myself to the will of my Ojebwa father," was the meek reply. "May the daughter of the Bald Eagle's enemy speak to her great father?"

"Say on," was the brief reply, "the Bald Eagle's ears are open."

"The Bald Eagle is a mighty chief, the conqueror of his enemies and the father of his people," replied the Mohawk girl, and again was silent. "The Mohawk squaw speaks well; let her say on."

"The heart of the Mohawk is an open flower, it can be looked upon by the eye of the Great Spirit. She speaks the words of truth. The Ojebwa chief slew his enemies, they had done his good heart wrong; he punished them for the wrong they wrought; he left none living in the lodges of his enemies save one young squaw, the daughter of a brave, the grand-daughter of the Black Snake. The Bald Eagle loves even an enemy that is not afraid to raise the war-whoop or fling the tomahawk in battle. The young girl's mother was a brave." She paused, while her proud eye was fixed on the face of her aged auditor. He nodded assent, and she resumed, while a flush of emotion kindled her pale cheek and reddened her lips,—

"The Bald Eagle brought the lonely one to his lodge, he buried the hatchet and the scalping knife, he bade his squaws comfort her; but her heart was lonely, she pined for the homes of her fathers. She said, I will revenge my father, my mother, and my brothers and sisters; and her heart burned within her: but her hand was not strong to shed blood, the Great Spirit was about my Ojebwa father; she failed, and would have fled, for an arrow was in her flesh. The people of the Bald Eagle took her, they brought her down the great river to the council hill, they bound her with thongs and left her to die. She prayed, and the Great Spirit heard her prayer and sent her help. The white man came; his heart was soft; he unbound her, he gave water to cool her hot lips, he led her to his lodge. The white squaw (and she pointed to Catharine) was there, she bound up her wounds, she laid her on her own bed, she gave her meat and drink, and tended her with love. She taught her to pray to the Good Spirit, and told her to return good for evil, to be true and just, kind and merciful. The hard heart of the young girl became soft as clay when moulded for the pots and she loved her white sister and brothers, and was happy. The Bald Eagle's people came when my white brothers were at peace, they found a trembling fawn within the lodge, they led her away, they left tears and loneliness where joy and peace had been. The Mohawk squaw could not see the hearth of her white brothers desolate; she took the canoe, she to the lodge of the great father of his tribe, and she says to him, 'Give back the white squaw to her home on the Rice Lake, and take in her instead the rebellious daughter of the Ojebwa's enemy, to die or be his servant; she fears nothing now the knife or the tomahawk, the arrow or the spear: her life is in the hand of the great chief.'" She sank on her knees as she spoke these last words and bowing down her head on her breast remained motionless as a statue.

There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man rose and said:—

"Daughter of a brave woman, thou hast spoken long, and thou hast spoken well; the ears of the Bald Eagle have been open. The white squaw shall be restored to her brother's lodge—but thou remainest. I have spoken."

Catharine in tears cast her arms around her disinterested friend and remained weeping—how could she accept this great sacrifice? She in her turn pleaded for the life and liberty of the Mohawk, but the chief turned a cold ear to her passionate and incoherent pleading. He was weary—he was impatient of further excitement—he coldly motioned to them to withdraw; and the friends in sadness retired to talk over all that had taken place since that sad day when Catharine was taken from her home. While her heart was joyful at the prospect of her own release, it was clouded with fears for the uncertain fate of her beloved friend.

"They will condemn me to a cruel death," said Indiana, "but I can suffer and die for my white sister."

That night the Indian girl slept sweetly and tranquilly beside Catharine; but Catharine could not sleep; she communed with her own heart in the still watches of the night—it seemed as if a new life had been infused within her. She no longer thought and felt as a child; the energies of her mind had been awakened, ripened into maturity as it were, and suddenly expanded. When all the inmates of the lodges were profoundly sleeping, Catharine arose,—a sudden thought had entered into her mind, and she hesitated not to put her design into execution. There was no moon, but a bright arch of light spanned the forest to the north; it was mild and soft as moonlight, but less bright, and cast no shadow across her path; it showed her the sacred tent of the widow of the murdered Mohawk. With noiseless step she lifted aside the curtain of skins that guarded it, and stood at the entrance. Light as was her step, it awakened the sleeper; she raised herself on her arm and looked up with a dreamy and abstracted air as Catharine, stretching forth her hand in tones low and tremulous, thus addressed her in the Ojebwa tongue:—

"The Great Spirit sends me to thee, O woman of much sorrow; he asks of thee a great deed of mercy and goodness. Thou hast shed blood, and he is angry. He bids thee to save the life of an enemy—the blood of thy murdered husband flows in her veins. See that thou disobey not the words that he commands."

She dropped the curtain and retired as she had come, with noiseless step, and lay down again in the tent beside Indiana. Her heart beat as though it would burst its way through her bosom. What had she done?—what dared? She had entered the presence of that terrible woman alone, at the dead hour of night! she had spoken bold and presumptuous words to that strange being whom even her own people hardly dared to approach uncalled-for! Sick with terror at the consequences of her temerity, Catharine cast her trembling arms about the sleeping Indian girl, and hiding her head in her bosom, wept and prayed till sleep came over her wearied spirit. It was late when she awoke. She was alone: the lodge was empty. A vague fear seized her: she hastily arose to seek her friend. It was evident that some great event was in preparation. The Indian men had put on the war-paint, and strange and ferocious eyes were glancing from beneath their shaggy locks. A stake was driven in the centre of the cleared space in front of the chief's lodge: there, bound, she beheld her devoted friend; pale as ashes, but with a calm unshaken countenance, she stood. There was no sign of woman's fear in her fixed dark eye, which quailed not before the sight of the death-dooming men who stood round her, armed with their terrible weapons of destruction. Her thoughts seemed far away: perhaps they were with her dead kindred, wandering in that happy land to which the Indian hopes to go after life; or, inspired with the new hope which had been opened to her, she was looking to Him who has promised a crown of life to such as believe in His name. She saw not the look of agony with which Catharine regarded her; and the poor girl, full of grief, sunk down at the foot of a neighbouring tree, and burying her face between her knees, wept and prayed—oh! how fervently! A hope crept to her heart—even while the doom of Indiana seemed darkest—that some good might yet accrue from her visit to the wigwam of the Great Medicine squaw. She knew that the Indians have great belief in omens, and warnings, and spirits, both good and evil; she knew that her mysterious appearance in the tent of the Mohawk's widow would be construed by her into spiritual agency; and her heart was strengthened by this hope. Yet just now there seems little reason to encourage hope: the war-whoop is given, the war-dance is begun—first slow, and grave, and measured; now louder, and quicker, and more wild become both sound and movement. But why is it hushed again? See, a strange canoe appears on the river; anon an old weather-beaten man, with firm step, appears on the greensward and approaches the area of the lodge.

The Bald Eagle greets him with friendly courtesy; the dance and death-song are hushed; a treaty is begun. It is for the deliverance of the captives. The chief points to Catharine—she is free: his white brother may take her—she is his. But the Indian law of justice must take its course; the condemned, who raised her hand against an Ojebwa chief, must die. In vain were the tempting stores of scarlet cloth and beads for the women, with powder and shot, laid before the chief: the arrows of six warriors were fitted to the string, and again the dance and song commenced, as if, like the roll of the drum and clangour of the trumpet, it were necessary to the excitement of strong and powerful feelings, and the suppression of all tenderer emotions.

And now a wild and solemn voice was heard, unearthly in its tones, rising above the yells of those savage men. At that sound every cheek became pale: it struck upon the ear as some funeral wail. Was it the death-song of the captive girl bound to that fearful stake? No; for she stands unmoved, with eyes raised heavenward, and lips apart—

"In still, but brave despair."

Shrouded in a mantle of dark cloth, her long black hair unbound and streaming over her shoulders, appears the Mohawk widow, the daughter of the Ojebwa chief. The gathering throng fall back as she approaches, awed by her sudden appearance among them. She stretches out a hand on which dark stains are visible—it is the blood of her husband, sacrificed by her on that day of fearful deeds: it has never been effaced. In the name of the Great Spirit she claims the captive girl—the last of that devoted tribe—to be delivered over to her will. Her right to this remnant of her murdered husband's family is acknowledged. A knife is placed in her hand, while a deafening yell of triumph bursts from the excited squaws, as this their great high-priestess, as they deemed her, advanced to the criminal. But it was not to shed the heart's blood of the Mohawk girl, but to severe the thongs that bound her to the deadly stake, for which that glittering blade was drawn, and to bid her depart in peace whithersoever she would go.

Then, turning to the Bald Eagle, she thus addressed him: "At the dead of night, when the path of light spanned the sky, a vision stood before mine eyes. It came from the Great and Good Spirit, and bade me to set free the last of a murdered race whose sun had gone down in blood shed by my hand and by the hands of my people. The vision told me that if I did this my path should henceforth be peace, and that I should go to the better land and be at rest if I did this good deed." She then laid her hands on the head of the young Mohawk, blessed her, and enveloping herself in the dark mantle, slowly retired back to her solitary tent once more.



CHAPTER XVI.

"Hame, hame, hame, Hame I soon shall be, Hame, hame, hame, In mine own countrie."—Scotch Ballad.

Old Jacob and Catharine, who had been mute spectators of the scene so full of interest to them, now presented themselves before the Ojebwa chief, and besought leave to depart. The presents were again laid before him, and this time were graciously accepted. Catharine in distributing the beads and cloth took care that the best portion should fall to the grand-daughter of the chief, the pretty good-humoured Snowbird. The old man was not insensible to the noble sacrifice which had been made by the devoted Indiana, and he signified his forgiveness of her fault by graciously offering to adopt her as his child, and to give her in marriage to one of his grandsons, an elder brother of the Snowbird; but the young girl modestly but firmly refused this mark of favour, for her heart yearned for those whose kindness had saved her from death, and who had taught her to look beyond the things of this world to a brighter and a better state of being. She said, "She would go with her white sister, and pray to God to bless her enemies, as the Great Spirit had taught her to do."

It seems a lingering principle of good in human nature, that the exercise of mercy and virtue opens the heart to the enjoyment of social happiness. The Indians, no longer worked up by excitement to deeds of violence, seemed disposed to bury the hatchet of hatred, and the lodge was now filled with mirth, and the voice of gladness, feasting, and dancing. A covenant of peace and good-will was entered upon by old Jacob and the chief, who bade Catharine tell her brothers that from henceforth they should be free to hunt the deer, fish, or shoot the wild fowl of the lake, whenever they desired to do so, "he the Bald Eagle had said so."

On the morrow, with the first dawn of day, the old trapper was astir; the canoe was ready, with fresh cedar boughs strewed at the bottom. A supply of parched rice and dried fish had been presented by the Indian chief for the voyage, that his white brother and the young girls might not suffer, from want. At sun-rise the old man led his young charges to the lodge of the Bald Eagle, who took a kindly farewell of them. "The Snow-bird" was sorrowful, and her bright laughing eyes were dimmed with tears at parting with Catharine; she was a gentle loving thing, as soft and playful as the tame fawn that nestled its velvet head against her arm. She did not let Catharine depart without many tokens of her regard, the work of her own hands,—bracelets of porcupine quills cut in fine pieces and strung in fanciful patterns, [FN: Appendix M] mocassins richly wrought, and tiny bark dishes and boxes, such as might have graced a lady's work-table, so rare was their workmanship.

Just as they were about to step into the canoe "the Snow-bird" reappeared, bearing a richly worked bark box, "From the Great Medicine," she said in a low voice, "To the daughter of the Mohawk brave." The box contained a fine tunic, soft as a lady's glove, embroidered and fringed, and a fillet of scarlet and blue feathers, with the wings and breast of the war-bird, as shoulder ornaments. It was a token of reconciliation and good-will worthy of a generous heart.

The young girl pressed the gifts to her bosom and to her lips reverentially, and the hand that brought them to her heart, as she said in her native tongue, "Tell the Great Medicine I kiss her in my heart, and pray that she may have peace and joy till she departs for the spirit-land."

With joyful heart they bade adieu to the Indian lodges, and rejoiced in being once more afloat on the bosom of the great river. To Catharine the events of the past hours seemed like a strange bewildering dream; she longed for the quiet repose of home; and how gladly did she listen to that kind old man's plans for restoring her brothers and herself to the arms of their beloved parents. How often did she say to herself, Oh that I had wings like a dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest!—in the shelter of that dear mother's arms whom she now pined for with a painful yearning of the heart that might well be called home sickness. But in spite of anxious wishes, the little party were compelled to halt for the night some few miles above the lake. There is on the eastern bank of the Otonabee, a pretty rounded knoll, clothed with wild cherries, hawthorns and pine-trees, just where a creek half hidden by alder and cranberry bushes, works its way below the shoulder of the little eminence; this creek grows broader and becomes a little stream, through which the hunters sometimes paddle their canoes, as a short cut to the lower part of the lake near Crook's Rapids. To this creek old Jacob steered his light craft, and bidding the girls collect a few dry sticks and branches for an evening fire on the sheltered side of the little bank, he soon lighted the pile into a cheerful blaze by the aid of birch bark, the hunter's tinder—a sort of fungus that is found in the rotten oak and maple-trees—and a knife and flint; he then lifted the canoe, and having raised it on its side, by means of two small stakes which he cut from a bush hard by, then spread down his buffalo robe on the dry grass. "There is a tent fit for a queen to sleep under, mes cheres filles," he said, eyeing his arrangements for their night shelter with great satisfaction.

He then proceeded to bait his line, and in a few minutes had a dish of splendid bass ready for the coals. Catharine selected a large flat block of limestone on which the fish when broiled was laid; but old Jacob opened his wide mouth and laughed, when she proceeded to lay her bush table with large basswood leaves for platters. Such nicety he professed was unusual on a hunter's table. He was too old a forester to care how his food was dished, so that he had wherewithal to satisfy his hunger.

Many were the merry tales he told and the songs he sung, to wile away the time, till the daylight faded from the sky, and the deep blue heavens were studded with bright stars, which were mirrored in countless hosts deep deep down in that calm waveless river, while thousands of fireflies lighted up the dark recesses of the forest's gloom. High in the upper air the hollow booming of the night-hawk was heard at intervals, and the wild cry of the night-owl from a dead branch, shouting to its fellow, woke the silence of that lonely river scene.

The old trapper stretched before the crackling fire, smoked his pipe or hummed some French voyageur's song. Beneath the shelter of the canoe soundly slept the two girls; the dark cheek of the Indian girl pillowed on the arm of her fairer companion, her thick tresses of raven hair mingling with the silken ringlets of the white maiden. They were a lovely pair—one fair as morning, the other dark as night.

How lightly did they spring from their low bed, wakened by the early song of the forest birds! The light curling mist hung in fleecy volumes upon the river, like a flock of sheep at rest—the tinkling sound of the heavy dew-drops fell in mimic showers upon the stream. See that red squirrel, how lightly he runs along that fallen trunk—how furtively he glances with his sharp bright eye at the intruders on his sylvan haunts! Hark! there is a rustling among the leaves—what strange creature works its way to the shore? A mud turtle—it turns, and now is trotting along the little sandy ridge to some sunny spot, where, half buried, it may lie unseen near the edge of the river. See that musk-rat, how boldly he plunges into the stream, and, with his oarlike tail, stems the current till he gains in safety the sedges on the other side.

What gurgling sound is that?—it attracts the practised ear of the old hunter. What is that object which floats so steadily down the middle of the stream, and leaves so bright a line in its wake?—it is a noble stag. Look at the broad chest, with which he breasts the water so gallantly; see how proudly he carries his antlered head; he has no fear in those lonely solitudes—he has never heard the crack of the hunter's rifle—he heeds not the sharp twang of that bowstring, till the arrow rankles in his neck, and the crimson flood dyes the water around him—he turns, but it is only to present a surer mark for the arrow of the old hunter's bow; and now the noble beast turns to bay, and the canoe is rapidly launched by the hand of the Indian girl—her eye flashes with the excitement—her whole soul is in the chase—she stands up in the canoe, and steers it full upon the wounded buck, while a shower of blows are dealt upon his head and neck with the paddle. Catharine buries her face in her hands—she cannot bear to look upon the sufferings of the noble animal. She will never make a huntress—her heart is cast in too soft a mould. See they have towed the deer ashore, and Jacob is in all his glory,—the little squaw is an Indian at heart—see with what expertness she helps the old man; and now the great business is completed, and the venison is stowed away at the bottom of the canoe—they wash their hands in the river and come at Catharine's summons to eat her breakfast.

The sun is now rising high above the pine-trees, the morning mist is also rising and rolling off like a golden veil as it catches those glorious rays—the whole earth seems wakening into new life—the dew has brightened every leaf and washed each tiny flower-cup—the pines and balsams give out their resinous fragrance—the aspens flutter and dance in the morning breeze and return a mimic shower of dew-drops to the stream—the shores become lower and flatter—the trees less lofty and more mossy—the stream expands and wide beds of rushes spread out on either side—what beds of snowy water-lilies—how splendid the rose tint of those perseicarias that glow so brightly in the morning sun—the rushes look like a green meadow, but the treacherous water lies deep below their grassy leaves—the deer delights in these verdant aquatic fields, and see what flocks of red-wings rise from among them as the canoe passes near—their bright shoulder-knots glance like flashes of lightning in the sun-beams.

This low swampy island, filled with driftwood, these grey hoary trees, half choked and killed with grey moss and lichens—those straggling alders and black ash look melancholy—they are like premature old age, grey-headed youths. That island divides the channel of the river—the old man takes the nearest, the left hand, and now they are upon the broad Rice Lake, and Catharine wearies her eye to catch the smoke of the shanty rising among the trees—one after another the islands steal out into view—the capes, and bays, and shores of the northern side are growing less distinct, Yon hollow bay, where the beaver has hidden till now, backed by that bold sweep of hills that look in the distance as if only covered with green ferns, with here and there a tall tree, stately as a pine or oak—that is the spot where Louis saw the landing of the Indians—now a rising village—Gores' Landing. On yon lofty hill now stands the village church, its white tower rising amongst the trees forms a charming object from the lake, and there a little higher up, not far from the plank road, now stand pretty rural cottages—one of these belong to the spirited proprietor of the village that bears his name. That tasteful garden before the white cottage, to the right, is Colonel Brown's, and there are pretty farms and cultivated spots; but silence and loneliness reigned there at the time of which I write.

Where those few dark pines rise above the oak groves like the spires of churches in a crowded city, is Mount Ararat. [FN: Appendix N.] The Indian girl steers straight between the islands for that ark of refuge, and Catharine's eyes are dimmed with grateful tears as she pictures to herself the joyful greeting in store for her. In the overflowings of her gladness she seizes the old man's rugged hand and kisses it, and flings her arms about the Indian girl and presses her to her heart, when the canoe has touched the old well-remembered landing place, and she finds herself so near, so very near her lost home. How precious are such moments—how few we have in life—they are created from our very sorrows—without our cares our joys would be less lively; but we have no time to moralize—Catharine flies with the speed of a young fawn, to climb the steep cliff-like shoulder of that steep bank, and now, out of breath, stands at the threshold of her log-house—how neat and nice it looks compared with the Indians' tents—the little field of corn is green and flourishing—there is Hector's axe in a newly-cut log—it is high noon—the boys ought to have been there taking their mid-day meal, but the door is shut. Catharine lifts the wooden latch, and steps in—the embers are nearly burned out, to a handful of grey ashes—old Wolfe is not there—all is silent—and Catharine sits down to still the beating of her heart and await the coming up of her slower companions, and gladdens her mind with the hope that her brother and Louis will soon be home—her eye wanders over every old familiar object—all things seem much as she had left them, only the maize is in the ear and the top feather waves gracefully with the summer breeze—it promises an abundant crop; but that harvest is not to be gathered by the hands of the young planters—it was left to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field—to those humble reapers who sow not, neither do they gather into barns, for their Heavenly Father feedeth them. While the two girls busied themselves in preparing a fine roast of venison old Jacob stalked away over the hills to search for the boys, and it was not long before he returned with Hector and Louis.

I must not tell tales, or I might say what tears of joy were mingled with the rapturous greetings with which Louis embraced his beloved cousin; or I might tell that the bright flush that warmed the dusky cheek of the young Indian, and the light that danced in her soft black eyes, owed its origin to the kiss that was pressed on her red lips by her white brother. Nor will we say whose hand held hers so long in his while Catharine related the noble sacrifice made for her sake, and the perils encountered by the devoted Indiana—whose eyes were moistened with tears as the horrors of that fearful trial were described—or who stole out alone over the hills, and sat him down in the hush and silence of the summer night to think of the acts of heroism displayed by that untaught Indian girl, and to dream a dream of youthful love; but with these things, my young readers, we have nothing to do.

"And now, my children," said old Jacob, looking round the little dwelling, "have you made up your minds to live and die here on the shores of this lake, or do you desire again to behold your father's home? Do your young hearts yearn after the hearth of your childhood?" "After our fathers' home!" was Louis's emphatic reply. "After the home of our childhood!" was Catharine's earnest answer. Hector's lips echoed his sister's words, while a furtive troubled glance fell upon the orphan stranger; but her timid eye was raised to his young face with a trusting look, as she would have said. "Thy home shall be my home, thy God my God."

"Well, mon ami, I believe, if my old memory fails me not, I can strike the Indian trail that used to lead to the Cold Springs over the pine hills. It will not be difficult for an old trapper to find his way."

"For my part, I shall not leave this lovely spot without regret," said Hector. "It would be a glorious place for a settlement—all that one could desire—hill, and valley, and plain, wood and water. Well, I will try and persuade my father to leave the Cold Springs, and come and settle hereabouts. It would be delightful, would it not, Catharine, especially now we are friends with the Indians."

With their heads full of pleasant schemes for the future, our young folks laid them down that night to rest. In the morning they rose, packed up such portable articles as they could manage to carry, and with full hearts sat down to take their last meal in their home—in that home which sheltered them so long—and then, with one accord, they knelt down upon its hearth, so soon to be left in loneliness, and breathed a prayer to Him who had preserved them thus far in their eventful lives, and then they journeyed forth once more into the wilderness. There was one, however, of their little band they left behind: this was the faithful old dog Wolfe. He had pined during the absence of his mistress, and only a few days before Catharine's return he had crept to the seat she was wont to occupy, and there died. Louis and Hector buried him, not without great regret, beneath the group of birch-trees on the brow of the slope near the corn-field.



CHAPTER XVII.

"I will arise, and go to my father."—New Testament.

It is the hour of sunset; the sonorous sound of the cattle bells is heard, as they slowly emerge from the steep hill path that leads to Maxwell and Louis Perron's little clearing; the dark shadows are lengthening that those wood-crowned hills cast over that sunny spot, an oasis in the vast forest desert that man, adventurous, courageous man, has hewed for himself in the wilderness. The little flock are feeding among the blackened stumps of the uncleared chopping; those timbers have lain thus untouched for two long years; the hand was wanting that should have given help in logging and burning them up. The wheat is ripe for the sickle, and the silken beard of the corn is waving like a fair girl's tresses in the evening breeze. The tinkling fall of the cold spring in yonder bank falls soothingly on the ear. Who comes from that low-roofed log cabin to bring in the pitcher of water, that pale, careworn, shadowy figure that slowly moves along the green pasture, as one without hope or joy; her black hair is shared with silver, her cheek is pale as wax, and her hand is so thin, it looks as though the light might be seen through if she held it towards the sun? It is the heart-broken mother of Catharine and Hector Maxwell. Her heart has been pierced with many sorrows; she cannot yet forget the children of her love, her first-born girl and boy. Who comes to meet her, and with cheerful voice chides her for the tear that seems ever to be lingering on that pale cheek,—yet the premature furrows on that broad, sunburnt, manly brow speak, too, of inward care? It is the father of Hector and Catharine. Those two fine, healthy boys, in homespun blouses, that are talking so earnestly, as they lean across the rail fence of the little wheat field, are Kenneth and Donald; their sickles are on their arms; they have been reaping. They hear the sudden barking of Bruce and Wallace, the hounds, and turn to see what causes the agitation they display.

An old man draws near; he has a knapsack on his shoulders, which he casts down on the corner of the stoup; he is singing a line of an old French ditty; he raps at the open door. The Highlander bids him welcome, but starts with glad surprise as his hand is grasped by the old trapper. "Ha, Jacob Morelle, it is many a weary year since your step turned this way." The tear stood in the eye of the soldier as he spoke.

"How is ma chere mere, and the young ones?" asked the old man, in a husky voice—his kind heart was full. "Can you receive me, and those I have with me, for the night? A spare corner, a shake-down, will do; we travellers in the bush are no wise nice."

"The best we have, and kindly welcome; it is gude for saer een to see you, Jacob. How many are ye in all?"

"There are just four, beside myself,—young people; I found them where they had been long living, on a lonely lake, and I persuaded them to come with me."

The strong features of the Highlander worked convulsively, as he drew his faded blue bonnet over his eyes. "Jacob, did ye ken that we lost our eldest bairns, some three summers since?" he faltered, in a broken voice.

"The Lord, in his mercy, has restored them to you, Donald, by my hand," said the trapper.

"Let me see, let me see my children. To him be the praise and the glory," ejaculated the pious father, raising his bonnet reverently from his head; "and holy and blessed be his name for ever. I thought not to have seen this day. Oh! Catharine, my dear wife, this joy will kill you."

In a moment his children were enfolded in his arms. It is a mistaken idea that joy kills, it is a life restorer. Could you, my young readers, have seen how quickly the bloom of health began to reappear on the faded cheek of that pale mother, and how soon that dim eye regained its bright sparkle, you would have said that joy does not kill.

"But where is Louis, dear Louis, our nephew, where is he?"

Louis whose impetuosity was not to be restrained by the caution of old Jacob, had cleared the log fence at a bound, had hastily embraced his cousins Kenneth and Donald, and in five minutes more had rushed into his father's cottage, and wept his joy in the arms of father, mother, and sisters by turns, before old Jacob had introduced the impatient Hector and Catharine to their father.

"But while joy is in our little dwelling, who is this that sits apart upon that stone by the log fence, her face bent sadly down upon het knees, her long raven hair shading her features as with a veil," asked the Highlander Maxwell, pointing as he spoke' to the spot where, unnoticed and unsharing in the joyful recognition, sat the poor Indian girl. There was no paternal embrace for her, no tender mother's kiss imprinted on that dusky cheek and pensive brow—she was alone and desolate, in the midst of that scene of gladness.

"It is my Indian sister," said Catharine, "she also must be your child;" and Hector hurried to Indiana and half leading, half carrying the reluctant girl, brought her to his parents and bade them be kind to and cherish the young stranger, to whom they all owed so much.

I will not dwell upon the universal joy that filled that humble dwelling, or tell the delight of Kenneth and Donald at the return of their lost brother and sister, for my story hurries to a close.

Time passes on—years, long years have gone by since the return of the lost children to their homes, and many changes have those years effected. The log-houses have fallen to decay—a growth of young pines, a waste of emerald turf with the charred logs that once formed part of the enclosure, now, hardly serve to mark out the old settlement—no trace or record remains of the first breakers of the bush, another race occupy the ground. The traveller as he passes along on that smooth turnpike road that leads from Coburg to Cold Springs, and from thence to Gore's Landing, may notice a green waste by the road-side on either hand, and fancy that thereabouts our Canadian Crusoes' home once stood—he sees the lofty wood-crowned hill, and sees in spring-time, for in summer it is hidden by the luxuriant foliage, the little forest creek, and he may if thirsty, taste of the pure fresh icy water, as it still wells out from a spring in the steep bank, rippling through the little cedar-trough that Louis Perron placed there for the better speed of his mother when filling her water jug. All else is gone. And what wrought the change?—a few words will suffice to tell. Some travelling fur merchants brought the news to Donald Maxwell, that a party of Highlanders had made a settlement above Montreal, and among them were some of his kindred. The old soldier resolved to join them, and it was not hard to prevail upon his brother-in-law to accompany him, for they were all now weary of living so far from their fellow-men; and bidding farewell to the little log-houses at Cold Springs, they now journeyed downwards to the new settlement, where they were gladly received, their long experience of the country making their company a most valuable acquisition to the new colonists.