"Bleed, false heart! bleed!" cried a stern voice close behind him. "Bleed! or be to your father forever a curse! You have chosen! Abide by your choice! Up and away!"

With a high spring, the moccasins lifted their wearer bodily up from the ground, and began executing a variety of fantastic antics, as completely foreign to any design or will on the part of the boy as if he had been but a wire-worked puppet. Whereat peals of elfish laughter came ringing out, with explosive abruptness, from every side—from the leafy heart of the forest, from the rocky breast of the hill, from the empty depths of the sky, from the solid depths of the earth—wild and mocking laughter, mingled with cries of "Put him through! Put him through!" Then, as suddenly, the laughter ceased, when, with a hop, step and prodigious jump, by way of a start, the red moccasins bounded off through the forest, no more to be guided or curbed than the feet of a wild and unbridled horse. Through darksome wood and glimmering glade, over rugged hill and tangled vale, with incredible swiftness sped they on; nor turned aside for bramble covert or reedy brake, but right through the thick of them dashed, till the boy was covered with scratches from head to foot, and his garments all torn into rags.

"Stop! stop! I pray you, stop!" cried poor Sprigg, in piteous accent, at every new peril which seemed to threaten his destruction. At length, as if in spite, the moccasins stopped, so abruptly that he was thrown forward upon the ground, with a violence that left him stunned for several moments. Then, with hands that shook, did he assay to free himself from the accursed things. Too late; they clung to his feet, as if they had grown to the flesh, and the harder he tugged at them the closer they clung. In fear and rage he stamped with them upon the ground, and they, in revenge, squeezed and pinched his toes, till he screamed outright with the pain inflicted. Then, again, they were off at the same wild speed, and with no more regard for any purpose or wish of his than had he been but a dead load in them, and they had taken into themselves all part of his life and all his will.

By and by, of their own accord, the moccasins came to a halt; and weary and faint, and sick unto death, our unfortunate little hero threw himself down at the foot of a tree to die. But scarcely had he stretched himself along the ground, when his ear was caught, first, by a rude roar, a far way off in the forest; then by a hoarse howl; then by a shrill scream; then by a gruff growl; and now, nearer at hand the roar, the howl, the scream, the growl—all heard at once in a savage chorus. He knew them but too well, and their sound struck a terror into his heart, which even the thought of approaching death had not awakened. Up again he sprang, exhausted as he was, to fly for the life which, but the moment before, he would fain have resigned. As he turned to flee he threw a fearful glance behind him, and through the chinks of the forest caught sight of a bear, a panther, a wolf and a bison bull, coming swiftly on and making directly toward him. For more than this he waited not, but, with a despairing cry to his father for help; to his mother for—it were hard to say what—away he sped, as if his moccasins had taken the wings of the wind.

Through darksome wood and glimmering glade, over rugged hill and tangled vale, the Manitou race went on—the sky all blue and serene above them; the setting sun all bright and smiling before them. At every fearful glance cast behind him the young fugitive could perceive that his pursuers were gaining upon him. Anon, they were so close upon him that he could see their eyes, glaring like balls of fire. And now were they treading upon his very shadow, their smoking breath blown hot upon his ears and neck. Again went up the despairing cry to father; to mother. And they did hear it; would have heard it had they been in their graves!

The cry was still in the air, when a young bear shot forward, wheeled about, and rearing himself up square before him, snatched his cap from his head. His cap was still in the air, when it was replaced by a green coronal, at whose magic touch the whole scene assumed at once a totally different aspect. The grisly shape before him was not a rampant bear, but Manitou-Echo himself, bareheaded, somewhat excited, but not in the least degree short of breath. His other pursuers, appearing now in their true shapes to the fugitive, proved also to be but elves, each wearing the skin of the beast, whose whole likeness he wore but now, and showing an aspect, wild and savage enough, yet which would not have been unbeautiful to innocent eyes. With a bland smile and light wave of the hand, thus speaks Manitou-Echo:

"Bravely done, Sprigg! Bravely done! You have run a magnificent race! We never saw a young human thing acquit himself in handsomer style! Why, sir, we were beginning to think your shadow was all we were likely to catch! But here we are, one and all, coming out at the goal at the same instant! That's brave! We promised to speed you on, and show you in style to grandpap's house by set of sun! And like true Manitous, too, have we kept our word! You can't deny it! Nobody can! Look!"

Sprigg looked. The Manitou race, after stretching its length for many a zig-zag mile, had brought them to the hour of sunset, and to the top of the lofty hill, where stood the small stockade fort, under the shelter of whose wooden walls his grandfather and the other pioneers had established their cabin homes. But these, with the loving human hearts he had trusted to find there, were now behind him, utterly beyond his reach. Out before him was a depth of airy emptiness! Down beneath him—horrible! A tremendous precipice, and his feet on the very brink! Back he shrank, aghast! But the elves were behind him! His brain spun 'round! The mystic coronal was snatched from his head. The next instant the Manitou moccasins, with a wild leap, sheer over the dizzy verge, had flung him away, like a waif! Down the frightful declivity, whirling, he went, dropping from ledge to ledge like a lifeless lump, whirling and dropping, till into the dusky depths of the forest that shagged the foot of the hill he rolled and vanished. And peals of elfin laughter; weird and mocking laughter, beginning at the brink of the steep, far up there, and keeping pace with the whirling body, now in the edge of the wood, far down there, subsiding into an elfin wail, a weird and pitying wail, then suddenly ceased. A dell, it was, where echoes were wont to linger and answer each other; but never an echo lingered now to lead in the deathlike silence that settled at once on the glimmering evening scene.



CHAPTER XVII.

Missed.

With Pow-wow, now before him, now behind him, trotting out many a short, irrelevant digression from their general course, Jervis Whitney, rifle on shoulder, came trudging cheerfully homeward, all unwitting of the young-feet that had met him, the young eyes that had seen him, the young ears that had heard him—heard the very rustling of his garments—far back yonder in the heart of the lonely forest! He was still a half mile or more from home—the bright June afternoon by this time wearing an evening cast—when from among the trees a little way off to one side, the voice of Elster reached his ear, calling Sprigg in a tone of anxiety and alarm. Surprised to find his wife so far from the house, and evidently in quest of their boy, Jervis, somewhat alarmed himself, hastened forward to meet her and inquire into the occasion of so unwonted a circumstance.

"Ah! dear Jervis!" cried she, with tearful eyes and tremulous voice, while yet her husband was coming, "You are returning, and our boy not with you! I was hoping he might have heard the report of your rifle or Pow-wow's bark and had gone forth to meet you, as he often delights in doing!" Then she went on to tell how Sprigg, about 1 o'clock, had left the house to fetch a pail of water from their favorite but more distant spring, down there in the edge of the woods. Her mind becoming wholly occupied with her work at the loom, she had quite lost sight of the little circumstance, when, all at once, it had struck her that it had now been several hours since Sprigg had left the house, nor had yet returned. Whereat she had left off her weaving and gone forth to see what had become of him. She had searched the clearing all around the house, and the woods all around the clearing; yet not a trace of him had she discovered, saving the empty bucket at the spring.

By the time the story was ended, which she told with many an anxious detail, they had passed on by the house and reached the spring. In the course of the day's chase the hunter had come upon a fresh Indian trail, which made him at first apprehensive that the boy, while thus out of sight and hearing of home, might have been crept upon and captured by some lurking band of savages. But there were no traces at the spring, nor near it, to justify his apprehension; nor yet that of his having fallen a prey to wild beasts—the two sources of danger being, in those days, always coupled in the minds of our pioneer progenitors. The prints of the boy's bare feet were plainly enough to be seen in the path that led down the hill; but here, at the spring, without any sign of their having retraced themselves, they suddenly vanished. For once the hunter's clear-seeing eye and his dog's keen-scenting nose were utterly baffled. Those Manitou moccasins being, as you must remember, charmed, could be worn and leave no trace of their wearer behind them that sight of man or scent of dog could discern, be it footprint on the ground or odor in the air. What manner of disappearance might this be?

All in a state of wonderment now, as well as distress, they hastened back to the house, if, happily, some nook or corner had been overlooked, where the boy had lain down and fallen asleep. They were pursuing this forlorn hope, when Elster found herself standing, without any will or volition of her own, directly in front of the old show bill, with her eyes fixed upon it, as if it had been an object she had never seen there before. Then it all came back to her mind, how that picture of the Indian boy and his Shetland pony had charmed Sprigg's fancy and set him to dreaming about red moccasins, and how strangely the whim had possessed him to go to the settlement, where he might make a display of his fantastic finery. This she told Jervis, and together they ran to the chest to see if the moccasins were really playing a part in the mysterious matter.

Pale as death turned Jervis Whitney when he discovered they were gone. Backward the strong man staggered some paces, as had he been struck on the breast by a heavy fist, and, sinking down upon an oaken settee, exclaimed in a voice of horrified astonishment:

"Oh, Nick of the Woods! Nick of the Woods!" That elfin scene in the forest had come flashing back to his memory, like a prophetic dream, the interpretation whereof was now to be looked for. "My son Manitou-Echo is burning to run a race with your son Sprigg." Thus had spoken the Manitou king; and fantastic as the words had seemed at the time, evident enough was it now that, couched in them, was a meaning or purpose deeper by far than the hunter had divined. Perhaps the trial of bodily strength, or moral virtue, or whatever it was, at which they hinted, had already begun; and their boy now the subject of some elfish freak for his follies, or the victim of some elfish retributions for his transgressions.

Elster stood gazing down on her husband, where, with his face buried in his hands, he sat, repeating the singular exclamation which had escaped him on finding the moccasins missing. As yet, for some whimsical, elf-prompted reason or other, Jervis had told her nothing of his interview with Nick of the Woods, and whenever she had questioned him touching the moccasins he had answered that they had been sent to their boy from Fairyland, thus dodging the truth by telling the literal fact, knowing that she would treat it as a pleasantry. She was beginning to fear that the stroke had proved too much for the poor man's strength of mind, when, after remaining quite silent for some moments, he raised his head, and looking at her sorrowfully but calmly enough, addressed her:

"Dear Elster, I have not broken my fast since morning. Let me have something to eat and I will set out for the fort at once. It is but four or five miles to the nearest house on the way, and you can easily walk with me that far, there to remain until my return. At present I see not what better course is left us to follow."

A cold supper was set before him at once. While he was eating it Elster went and busied herself about the house, preparatory to their departure. The meal was soon dispatched, and when he had looked carefully to his rifle and hunting accoutrements, to reassure himself that all was in good order for service, Jervis went to assist his wife in making such disposition of their little household concerns as their absence should render necessary. To his surprise, he found her preparing to accompany him all the way.

"Hardly, dear Elster!" said he. "The horses have leaped the fence and strayed out into the woods, so that I shall be obliged to go afoot, and for you to walk with me is quite out of the question. Twenty long miles—many of them rough and steep, all of them dark and dangerous! You could hardly endure it to the end."

"If the child has walked it," rejoined Elster, "so may the mother; and if he has not, and is lost to us forever, then this lonely house is our home no longer! I return to it no more."

Though of a gentle and yielding nature under ordinary circumstances, Elster could meet a great trial, like the present one, with a spirit firm and courageous enough; and knowing this, her husband forbore any further remonstrance to her determination. The sun had set and the moon was rising, when, having made their solitary dwelling as secure as possible, they set out on their melancholy journey. In those days the buffalo traces, as they were called, formed the only highways of the wilderness, and the one our poor friends were now following led, for the greater part of the way, through a dense and tangled forest, where the moonlight showed itself only in straggling beams and shed but a ghostly glimmer. At intervals the sombre wildness of the scene would be relieved by a bluegrass glade, all agleam with moonbeams and glistering dew drops, saving where flecked with the shadows of clumped or scattered trees. Pleasing, however, as was the contrast they presented to the savage solitudes around them, these bright spots left upon the spirit an impression of sadness quite peculiar. Each had so much the appearance of a well kept park or woodland pasture that the lonely wayfarers would sometimes find themselves all but expecting that the next turn of the road would bring them in sight of the stately mansion or comfortable farmhouse to which these beautiful grounds pertained. Nothing of the kind appearing there, the spot, from the very suggestiveness of the homelike, would seem to them more desolate than the most unhomelike parts of the forest.

Often would they pause and call out loudly the name of their boy; the bare possibility that he might be near and hear them seemed too precious to be slighted. Saving this, and, from time to time, an inquiry of affectionate solicitude on the part of the husband, with the wife's answer of patient reassurance that she was not weary, the two poor hearts pursued their way in silence. In the course of every four or five miles they would come to a solitary cabin home like their own, where they would stop and rouse the sleeping inmates, to inquire if aught had been seen there of their boy. Twice or thrice they heard, a far way off in the darkness, sounds that came to their troubled ears like the cries of a child in distress or terror. But when they had paused to listen, and had sent the name of their loved one ringing far and wide, naught had heard they, but the screaming of a night bird wheeling high aloft, or, peradventure, the distant howling of a wolf abroad on his nightly foray. At such times, with a look of dumb, distressed perplexity, first up into their faces, then all around him, old Pow-wow would give a plaintive whine, as if fully conscious that all was not going well with his human friends, and that this unwonted journey had a sad reference, in some way, to his little master. Sometimes dropping down upon his haunches in the path, some distance in advance, and turning his muzzle pitifully up to the moon, the affectionate old fellow would howl outright, long and loud, nor leaving off until his master and mistress were well up with him again. Thus, in his poor, dumb way, would Pow-wow testify that he was their fellow-sufferer, grieving and sympathizing with them and longing so earnestly to do something to help and comfort them—only but show poor dog how he might set about it.



CHAPTER XVIII.

Pow-Wow Finds Him.

The gray dawn was beginning to take the sun-red glow of morning, when, quite worn out with so long a walk, the anxious parents arrived at the stockade station—the center and rallying point of the settlements in that quarter of Kentucky. They had been indulging themselves in the forlorn hope that their boy, by some strange chance, might possibly have found his way to that place; but this vanished with the first look of wondering-inquiry that greeted their coming. Though no tongue could give them any tidings of the lost one, kind and sympathetic hearts were there for comfort, with willing hands and swift feet for help. Among the latter were several hunters, cunning in woodcraft, who could follow a trail, whether of man or beast, the livelong day; and over ground where nothing might be distinguished by the inexperienced eye but grass or leaves, sand, pebbles or solid rock.

Forth on the humane errand they sped them, one and all, some to the northward, some to the southward; many to the eastward, but none to the westward. The little runaway's starting point had been in the East; he might have strayed away toward the North or toward the South, but it seemed hardly possible that he could have passed on by toward the West. They little imagined how far the wayward young feet had followed the setting sun!

All day long they beat the tangled wilds. Of savage beasts, traces, more than enough, could they find, turn whither they might; and of savage men, two or three recent trails, one of them leading directly across the buffalo highway that traversed the forest between the settlements and Whitney's distant cabin. Late in the afternoon the questers began returning to the fort, dropping in, weary and disheartened, one after one. Some had pushed the search to the very threshold of the deserted home, and had observed how the boy's footprints, after tracing themselves along the path down the hillside, suddenly vanished, there at the spring, and never a sign anear the spot of living things besides, which could suggest an explanation of the mystery. What manner of disappearance might this be?

That morning, after having snatched a brief repose from the fatigues of a day's chase and a night's journey, Jervis Whitney had started forth for a few hours after the rest to renew the search, taking leave of Elster at the fort gate. At sunset he returned, purposing that, if no tidings had been gathered, to beat the forest toward the West until dark. He found his wife where he had left her—where, indeed, she had remained through all the weary, dreary intervening hours—waiting and watching for his return. As the questers had come dropping in, she had read in each dejected face the answer to the question which her own had ceased to ask. She hastened forth to meet her husband, and as he sadly, tenderly folded her in his arms, she laid her head upon his rugged breast, and gave her pent-up sorrow relief in tears. But scarcely had her tears begun to flow, when suddenly she checked them, and with singular decision in manner and voice, exclaimed:

"Come, Jervis! Come!"

"Whither, dear Elster?"

"I know not," replied she. "I have heard no voice, yet I feel that we are called! Come!"

They went at once, as in obedience to a summons, which must be answered then or never. They went as led by a hand, which, to resist, were to tempt their own destruction. They saw themselves drawing—felt themselves drawn toward that side of the hill where, not a stone's throw in the rear of the fort, it abruptly ended in the lofty precipice, before mentioned. A few steps more and their feet had been on the very verge, when, between it and themselves, rang out a cry of thrilling horror, followed by peals of wild, unearthly laughter, which, beginning at the brow of the steep, swiftly descended along its sides, till in the edge of the forest, afar down there, they subsided into a wild, unearthly wail. Then in a moment all was still—not a tell-tale echo awaking to help the listening ear to determine what manner of sounds had broken the silence.

Harrowed with horror and anguish, Jervis and Elster stood, and with no more power to move from the spot than the senseless stones that lay around them. Not a sign of life had they seen, where sounds of life they had heard. It was as if the vacant air had cried; then laughed, to mock itself for crying; then wailed, to chide itself for laughing.

Old Pow-wow had followed cowering behind them. Now he bounded forward, and straight came bounding back again, with something in his mouth, which he laid at their feet. Pitiful heavens! The little coonskin cap! The next instant the dog had flung him sheer over the brink of the steep, and now, in a succession of huge leaps from ledge to ledge, was making his zig-zag way adown its sides, till, in the forest shadows far below, he disappeared. One moment more and his bark came ringing joyfully up to his friends—the sweetest, welcomest sound that had ever greeted their ears.

"Pow-wow has found him! Wait here, Elster!"

So saying, and moved by a will, not all his own, and sustained by a power, no more his own than had he been a child in his father's arms, the father followed the dog, making his way in the same zig-zag manner adown the perilous hill, till, in the dusky shadows at its base, he, too, had plunged. A few long, rapid strides, and he was at the spot whence Pow-wow's joyful barks had continued to resound. What found he there? The body, indeed, of his child; but whether as a waif unto life, or as a prize unto death—it were hard to tell. Stretched out on the ground, all ghastly it lay; the head toward him, and just beyond the naked feet—adjusted side by side, with their old air of easy self-assurance, the Manitou moccasins. As the father approached, the elfish little horrors, fetching a summerset aloft, as he had seen them do the time before, plumped themselves directly between him and his child, though vanishing the moment they touched the ground. But, with the vanishing, came a voice of more than mortal tenderness, and with the voice a perfume of more than earthly sweetness.

"Jervis Whitney—

Whom we lend our moccasins red, Them we show how the erring are sped. Whom we lend our coronals green, Them we show how the erring are seen, When the right begins to fall, Hearts must bleed or lost is all."

They who watched from above—for, by this time, many were there with Elster—had scarcely drawn the long, full breath, which follows a moment of breathless suspense, when the father, bearing a burden in his arms, reappeared at the base of the precipice. They called to him and pointed to the path that led obliquely around the hill, as being that by which he should ascend. A moment he paused and ran his eye along the circuitous way; but looking upward again to the group above him, and seeing Elster leaning over the dizzy brink, with arms outstretched, in piteous eagerness to clasp their loved one again to her heart, he paused no longer. To their unspeakable amazement, right up that huge and difficult steep, all burdened as he was, came the bold, strong man, with steps so light and swift that his ascent appeared as smooth and uninterrupted as the gliding shadow of a flying bird. Bold and strong, indeed, but that were a feat, if not beyond all human courage to dare, at least beyond all human strength to perform.

"Oh! God of Love!" exclaimed the mother, as the father gained the summit. "But our child is dead! Our child is dead!"

And with a piteous moan, the poor heart swooned away. Kind hands stayed her fall, and taking her up and bearing her into the fort, there laid her on a bed in grandpap's house. The same kind hands took the boy, whom, up to this moment, the father had held tenderly clasped to his rugged breast; took and laid him beside his senseless mother, his garments all torn to tatters and red with blood, which still trickled from many a wound.

"After all, the child may not be dead," said a kind voice—young Ben Logan's mother. "See how he bleeds." And she laid her hand upon the unheaving breast, in the forlorn hope of finding the heart still beating. Then, after a moment of suspense, came the joyful announcement: "It beats! It beats! The child still lives!"

The cry aroused the mother to consciousness. Clasping her child to her bosom, in an agony of pitying love and hopeless sorrow, again and again she cried: "Oh! God of Love! But our child is dead!"

"No, Elster, dear, your darling is not dead," said another kind voice—little Bertha Bryant's mother. "Give him to us and we will wash and lave his wounds and bind them up with healing salves. See how freely they bleed. That could not be the case if he were dead."

She suffered them to take him and do with him as they would; for herself, she still believed him dead. At the end of half an hour Jervis, who had gone with the women to assist in the work of resuscitation, returned to her and bade her be of good cheer; that the wounds, though many and grievous enough, did not seem to be deep and dangerous, and the signs of reviving life were growing every moment more and more apparent. Thus reassured, Elster arose, and from that time forward performed her part as beseemed the mother of the sufferer.



CHAPTER XIX.

Young Ben Logan.

That morning, when the quest had begun, foremost of all the questers had gone forth young Ben Logan. Throughout the anxious day no one, saving the father of the lost boy, had shown such unremitting, unwearied diligence in the search as Ben, and that he had desisted at all was because the gathering shadows of evening had rendered further efforts unavailing.

Young Ben Logan, it will be remembered, was the boy to whom poor Sprigg had been so eager to make a display of his red moccasins, even while confident that their glitter and gleam would set his young friend—the best young friend he had in the world—to dying of envy the moment they met his dazzled eyes. Ben was a big-bodied, soft-hearted, slow-thoughted lad, about sixteen years of age; bigger already, indeed, and stronger than the majority of grown-up men. He could handle a rifle like a veteran marksman, and, in the ways of forest life, could make himself as completely at home as a young Indian. He was greatly attached to Sprigg, and although the older by three or four years, considered his little friend as, in every way, his equal, excepting as regarded size, marksmanship and woodcraft. In return, Sprigg loved Ben as much as a boy so humored and spoilt, and, consequently, so wayward and selfish, was capable of loving anybody not exactly necessary to make Number One all comfortable and snug. He was perfectly aware of the high esteem in which his mental parts were held by his big chum and master's every look, word and act told you over and over that he was exactly of the same opinion, if not more so. Nor can we ourselves deny, having had frequent occasion to note the fact, that our hero was a boy of uncommon sprightliness of mind and liveliness of imagination, while Ben was somewhat heavy and slow in all his ways, except when all agog in the chase, and then he was as light and elastic as an Indian bow; as quick and keen as an Indian arrow. Such being the difference between them, the two cronies chimed as smoothly together as a pair of well agreeing fiddles, each, in turn, taking the lead of the other—Ben, when they were roaming the perilous solitudes of the forest; Sprigg, when they were besporting themselves within the safe precincts of the fort.

Evening had deepened into night, when, all alone, weary and very sad, Ben Logan made his way back to the fort. Here, at the gate, being informed of the marvelous manner in which the quest had terminated, he hurried on to grandpap's house to see his little friend and learn what further particulars he might of the mysterious affair. His mother, hearing that he was coming, hastened to meet him at the door; hastened, because her son, being intended by nature for a man of huge proportions, was already provided with the full-grown foot to meet that end. Consequently, his fashion of traveling over the loose, board floors, we usually see in backwoods cabins, was of that horse-like kind peculiar to overgrown boys, and against which quiet old ladies are wont to protest as more in keeping with barns and bridges than with human dwellings. And now that she was a nurse, his mother must needs protest against the habit in question more earnestly than usual, representing the necessities of the case in a way so affectionate and anxious that the tender-hearted Ben felt himself growing tender-footed, even while yet he stood on the solid earth. It took her but a few minutes to tell him all she knew of Sprigg's story, and it was as much as Elster knew, or any one else, indeed, excepting Jervis Whitney himself. When he had heard it, the young hunter, big with wonder and pity, leaned his rifle against the wall beside the doorway, and, treading the floor as lightly as were he walking on thin ice, followed his mother into a back room, which had been assigned to the little sufferer.

There, pale as the dead, and as senseless, he lay, and as motionless, saving the slightest breathing, which might encourage the hope that, in the contest between them, life still held the advantage over death. Every now and then a tremor, somewhat more perceptible than the breathing, would play for a moment over the lacerated limbs, like the flickering flame of an expiring lamp. Ben could remain no longer than just sufficed for one good look at his unfortunate little friend, as that was enough to call forth a blubbering outburst of pitiful feeling much too boisterous for a place like that, and quite as much to be protested against by the doctors and nurses as his horse-like tread. So he conveyed himself away with as little noise as a rumbling, puncheon floor would well allow a half-grown boy with full-grown feet. And gathering up his rifle as he passed out at the door, went crying home. Some people, especially the harder cases among the boys, may regard such an exhibition of feeling as more beseeming a faint-hearted girl than a bold-hearted young hunter. But you and I know too well what human nature ought to be than to think anything of the sort. We know that this tenderness of feeling—let them call it weakness if they will—was the best part of young Ben Logan's strength, and that, without it, the son of a white man's wife would have been no better than the son of a red man's squaw.

Next morning, at rise of sun—you all know what a desperately early riser the sun is in the busy month of June—Ben was again at grandpap's house to learn how it was faring with his little friend, and to offer such help in the case as a boy might render. His mother, who, with Bertha Bryant's mother, had watched all night, met him at the door and told him that Sprigg, although still unconscious, showed some signs of improvement; his breathing was stronger and more regular, and the tremor about his limbs had nearly disappeared. Ben wished to know if it would not be advisable for him to go to the lick and shoot a fat, young buck for Sprigg. Sprigg's favorite dish was a venison ham chopped up and made into a pie, with rich, brown crust and plenty of good, cream gravy, and he ought to have it for his dinner to-morrow. His mother smiled at the suggestion, and answered that it would be many a day, she feared, before his little friend could be equal to such a strong diet. Well, he would go and shoot a buffalo for Sprigg. Sprigg was uncommonly fond of buffalo tongue, and might like to have some for his supper that night. No; buffalo tongue was not more to be thought of than venison pastry. Well, then, a fat, young bear; what could be more tender and delicate than the fat of a young bear, especially when the woods, as now, were full of wild honey? No; all too rich and strong for the present demands of the case. Should the little patient be found able to swallow just a few spoonfuls of weak squirrel broth, right glad and thankful should they be. So "Benjamin" might go and fetch a squirrel for Sprigg.

"Benjamin" went and did as he was bidden, bringing down a squirrel within gunshot of the fort and sending it in forthwith to his mother. But this was far from satisfying "Benjamin," and he believed it would be far from satisfying Sprigg. As the station here had resulted in a settlement of considerable extent, game of the larger sort had grown very scarce in the immediate vicinity, thus obliging the hunter, who would pursue the chase on a scale beseeming the hunter's paradise, to betake him to the more unfrequented parts of the forest. So, to the distant lick went young Ben Logan, leading, Daniel Boone-like, a horse by the bridle to help him home with the spoils of the chase. He had taken counsel with himself and was resolved that Sprigg should have a fair start in the direction of recovery to health, and to this benevolent end a fat, young buck or buffalo must that day bite the dust; or, better still, as the woods were full of wild-honey, a fat, young bear. Squirrels and birds might do well enough for people in full health, where nature had only to hold her own; but in a case like Sprigg's where nature was exhausted, it was only the larger quadrupeds which could yield the nourishment sufficiently strengthening for certain and speedy recuperation. According to Ben's theory, a given quantity of bear's meat, for example, afforded some ten or twelve times as much nourishment as an equal quantity of squirrel's meat.

That day a fat, young bear fell a sacrifice to Ben's physiological heresy; the next day a fat, young buck; a lordly buffalo on the third, and so on, and so on, for more than a week, with a smart sprinkling of squirrels and birds looking to the special wants of the doctors and nurses. Every morning he would furnish the squirrel or bird required of him; which, having done by way of compromise between his better judgment and his duty as a son, then away to the lick would he hie himself on his own responsibility for something better worth a hunter's notice. The good fellow had evidently taken Sprigg's case into his own hands, under an abiding conviction that nothing less than an heroic course of wild meat could bring it to a happy issue. Thus, while he was devoting all his powers of body and mind, and the shiny parts of a fortnight to the sustenance of one little sick boy, young Ben Logan had well nigh foundered the whole settlement on wild meat—the backbones, tongues and spareribs themselves being enough to surfeit the fort, consisting, though it did, of some ten or twelve families, all well stocked with children and dogs.

How could poor Sprigg have ever imagined that a pair of red moccasins, or anything else, indeed, which might be named as very attractive to juvenile fancy, could stir up envy, to the dying extent, or to any extent whatever, in the simple, unselfish heart of his friend Ben? Ben would have admired the moccasins exceedingly; pronounced them beautiful, fine enough for the son of a Shawnee Sachem; fine enough, indeed, for Nick of the Woods himself; but to envy Sprigg for his finery would no more have entered his thoughts than to envy a redbird for his tail feathers, or a red man for his head feathers. Ben could have put those Manitou moccasins on and worn them whithersoever he pleased, and his guileless feet been as easy and safe in them as had they been shod with unenchanted, merchantable, split-leather, Yankee shoes. Ben could have followed the chase in those moccasins day after day, till he had rubbed and kicked them bare of all their gaudy heads; till he had snagged them full of holes and covered them over with barbarous patches of his own needlework, and never, in all that time, have missed his aim, or lost his way, or forgotten to say his prayers, for aught he could have seen in their glitter and gleam to daze and cheat him out of his sober senses.

And why? Because Ben Logan was not a wild dreamer. In other words, because he was one of the best boys that ever lived; so good, indeed, that he could not have been more invincible to Manitou spells, even had he been armed with Tom Walker's pocket bible and worn it perpetually in his bosom. Nick of the Woods himself could never befuddle the wits of such a boy, even were he, too, minded to make the trial and exert his Manitou utmost to that end; though, to do him justice, the Manitou king was perfectly willing—glad, you may have it—to let Ben Logan alone. He knew very well that he could do nothing for the bettering of such a boy, which nature—best of mothers—had not done for him already. No need to set Ben's heart a-bleeding to develop the good that was in it, or to crumble up the evil.

Now, there are people who, though given to swallowing their own camels, are just as given to straining at other people's gnats; and these of course, being incredulous as to what I have just affirmed, must need some further proof to remove their doubts. They shall have only to read what follows.

One pleasant afternoon, as Ben Logan was ranging the wilderness, catering for his little sick friend, Nick of the Woods caught Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo amusing themselves at the young hunter's expense. They would set the trees and bushes to waving their tops and fluttering their leaves, where there was no wind; smoke to rising, where there was no fire; fire to burning, where there was no fuel; shadows to flitting and dodging about, where there were no visible forms; echoes to calling and answering each other, where there were no audible voices. Then would the elfish rogues fall to laughing and skipping about in the most extravagant manner to witness the big, young mortal's demonstrations of amazement: how he would open wide his eyes to stare this way, and wider still to stare that way; how he would cock first one ear, then the other, to listen; yes, and how he cocked his gun, too, ready to let fly the unerring bullet, the moment whatever it was—man, or varmint, or goblin—might dare to expose but so much as the head or tail of itself for a mark.

"Imps!" cried the Manitou king, "let Ben Logan alone! There's nothing in the dreams of such a young mortal which calls for any of your good help. Were Ben a boy of a wild and brilliant fancy, say, like Sprigg, whose case we are putting through in a somewhat novel fashion, why, these pranks you are playing might not be deemed unseasonable, might even be approved; but you forget the nature of Manitou duty and go beyond the bounds of Manitou privilege, when you turn aside to bedevil a thoroughly honest human thing like Ben. To be sure, as I have just hinted, Ben is not a brilliant youth, nor shall ever be one, even though he should live to see his second childhood, and from that stage of mortal existence take a fresh start; nor is he likely ever to make a conspicuous figure in the world. What, though, does this signify to us Manitous? Such considerations, smacking, as they do, of human folly, are not the sort to influence the true Manitou way of viewing mankind, or the true Manitou way of dealing with human concerns. 'Tis enough for us that Ben is right-minded and true-hearted; that he keeps his dreams and fancies within beseeming limits, never letting them go gadding wide and loose from home; or, if he lets them go abroad at all, depend upon it, the ends he proposes to himself are well meant and unselfish, be they wise or simple. Therefore, it behooves us, as true Manitous, to treat this humble, honest lad with just as much consideration and respect as we were showing the boy Washington, some forty years ago, and are now showing the boy Tecumseh.

"Then away with you, now, to Meg of the Hills and join her in her attendance on Little Bertha Bryant, the pretty young human thing, whose mind is so free from foolish fancies, whose heart so full of loving intentions that we can make her, and are making her, and shall continue to make her, an instrument to the good and happiness of the less worthy with whom her lot is cast. Away, ye imps! But mark ye before ye go, if ever I catch you making another innocent mortal the object of your impertinent pranks, I will reduce you, sure as fate, I will, to your original fog and moonshine, with just so little of you left as shall barely serve for echo and wisp."



CHAPTER XX.

Little Bertha Bryant.

Who, with pretty, young eyes overflowing with soft, sweet tears, stood gazing at Sprigg and his mother, where they lay side by side together? Little Bertha. Who, with pretty, young hands, so kind and deft, hung the kettle over the fire, and, when the water was warmed, carried it to her mother to wash and lave Sprigg's wounds? Little Bertha. Who, with pretty, young hopes and fears, all in a bird-like flutter, hovered around till the latest grown-up bedtime, wishing and wishing that she might do something to make Sprigg open his eyes and smile—part his lips and speak? Little Bertha. Who, with pretty, young feet, so willing and nimble, ran to the gate next morning, and every morning thereafter for more than a week, to receive from Ben the squirrel or bird for Sprigg's broth; then to the spring to fetch a pail of good, cool water; then to a neighbor's house for some balsam; then somewhere else for something else, and so on and so on throughout the livelong summer day, and all for Sprigg? Little Bertha all the time; nobody but little Bertha!

And who was little Bertha? Well, the answer to this question can only be given in superlatives, and even then it must still fall short of full expression. For little Bertha, you must know, was the sweetest-tempered, the truest-hearted, the clearest-headed, the purest-minded, the most helpful-handed, the most willing-footed—in short, the best and the nicest little backwoods damsel that ever wore linsey-woolsey frocks and homemade shoes in winter, and homespun cotton frocks and nothing at all on her feet in summer. But I see that, in this list, I had well nigh forgotten the most popular of all superlatives—"prettiest." So accustomed am I to squaring my estimate of beauty by the good, old adage, "he handsome is who handsome does," or "she beautiful is who beautiful does"—to employ a gender more appropriate to the case. Well, then, "the prettiest," withal, as you may easily believe when I tell you that her hair was so gold-like, her eyes so sky-like, her brow so lily-like, her cheeks so rose-like, her lips so cherry-like, and her form and motions so fairy-like, that Sleeping Beauty herself—of course, I mean before she fell asleep—would have envied little Bertha, even to the extent of wishing that she had been born in a backwoods cabin, instead of a royal palace.

From what has just been said, it may fairly be inferred that, young as it was, little Bertha's life was already largely made up of daily duty, and that she found in them such real delight as to make her quite unconscious of deserving credit for performing them. But the duty in which she took the greatest delight was that of going every evening to the bluegrass glades, a mile away from the fort, to fetch the cows home to be milked and secured for the night. The glades, which were well set in grass and thickly mottled over with patches of white clover, both the spontaneous products of the soil, were separated from each other by narrow belts of forest growth, converging, for the most part, toward the base of a grass-coated, tree-crowned, exceedingly pleasant-looking hill, of sufficient height to command a fine view of the neighboring country. To the top of this hill, no matter where the cattle might be, Bertha always climbed before quitting the spot.

I would not be understood as meaning that backwoods-man's daughter did this because she was a great admirer of fine landscapes. Intellectually, she may have been almost unconscious of their beauty; and yet it made her happy simply to sit up there for a half hour every evening and let the gladness in her young heart go forth to mingle itself with gladness of nature around her. The universal mother and friend, thus looked directly down upon, seems to assume a smile more directly responsive to the thoughts and emotions in the beholder's mind than when viewed from the general level. The little girl may have had but the faintest intimation of such an interchange; yet, depend upon it, had it not existed, she never would have troubled herself to clamber up the hill, excepting when the cattle were up there and too perverse to come down at her gentle call.

On the evening following Sprigg's mysterious reappearance, Bertha, on going to the glades and climbing to the top of her favorite hill, found there an altogether unfamiliar object, the sight whereof made her two blue eyes dilate with wonder and delight. Beside the moss-grown tree trunk, where she always sat when up there, stood a small but exceedingly luxuriant bush, which must have been the growth of a single day, as she had not seen it there on the previous evening, nor the like of it in all her life. Upon the bush, besides foliage of vivid greenness, grew in in the greatest profusion a large flower of marvelous beauty, both as to its shape, so heart-like, and to its color, so blood-like. But what more especially still distinguished the flower was its perfume, which, though powerful enough to be perceptible all over the hill, was yet too delicate, too lily-like to be easily referred to a plant of such tropical richness, which had more the appearance of bleeding than of blooming. It was a sweetness so peculiar, so foreign to all common experience that to inhale it were enough to make you fancy that fairyland was blooming near, and fairy florists experimenting with their plants in mortal soil.

The moment Bertha caught sight and scent of the flowers, there came, first into her mind, a vivid image of Sprigg, as she had left him lying at home, less like the living than the dead; and then, into her heart, a feeling that they were blooming there to no other end than for his restoration to life and health. Thus impressed—bespelled, it may be—the little girl, instead of lingering about the spot as usual, hastened to fill her apron with the offered good, stripping the bush to its last blossom. Then, bringing the cattle together in the shortest time the thing was ever done, without the help of a dog, she sent them trotting homeward with all their awkward might, leaving the patriarch of the herd, who was too stately or too stubborn to be stimulated out of a dignified walk, to follow on or stay behind, as suited his sulky old fancy best. Briskly had they started, more and more briskly on they went, the grandmotherly cows hobbling along in that peculiar, cross-legged trot, rather suggestive of rheumatism in the hocks and hips, and which limber-legged little boys, who follow at their heels, are mighty apt to mimic. Set were their big, mild eyes, all glassy with amazement—the sun a mile too high for milking time, not a sign in the sky to show for a coming thunder storm; not a yell, not a howl, not a scream in the forest to tell of Indian, wolf or panther.

Arrived at home, Bertha turned the cows into the enclosure, where they were wont to be milked and secured for the night. Then hastening on to grandpap's house, she entered by a back door, which opened directly into the sick room, and stealing quietly up to the bedside, began softly strewing the fragrant contents of her apron, handful by handful, over and around the form of the unconscious boy. Scarcely were the flowers strewn, their perfume filling the room, when, slowly over the wan, young face, which until this moment had worn the fixed and pallid cast of death, came stealing a smile of solemn, innocent sweetness, such as we often see on the faces of sleeping infants. Faint, it is true, was the smile, yet perceptible enough to betoken that the spirit was still at home, and only waiting for its doors to be reopened, when it would again reveal itself as a living presence. All in the room observed the change, wondering and rejoicing; rejoicing, for, when it passed away, which it did more slowly than it had come, they could see that the smile had been there, by the more life-like expression it left upon the face. But Jervis Whitney was moved to wonderment more than all the rest; for the moment he caught the scent of the flowers, he remembered it to be the same as that which had met him at the foot of the hill the previous evening.

Next afternoon, Bertha was off to the glades an hour before the usual time, and climbing at once to the top of the hill, was delighted to find that the bush had put forth fresh blossoms on every twig she had stripped the evening before, and evidently to no other end than to be stripped again for Sprigg's especial benefit. So it seemed to little Bertha; so it seems to us. The folks at home had hardly taken the second thought that she had gone for the cows, when here was Bertha back again, her cheeks as brightly red from her loving haste as the flowers she was strewing broadcast over and around her unconscious patient. Yes, and there it came again—that smile, less faint and sweeter still—and when it had passed away more slowly than before, more perceptible still was the life-like cast it left upon the countenance. Every evening, for seven days, was this repeated, the life-giving plant as often renewing its blossoms, and their vivifying effects on the patient becoming more and more apparent. Toward the third evening Sprigg had so far revived in body as to be able to toss himself about on the bed, and, in mind, so far as to be able to speak. And these manifestations of returning strength became each day more and more decided. When he spoke, however, it was to give utterance, in short and broken sentences, to wild and incoherent fancies, incomprehensible to those who listened, taking, as they did, shape and color from his present experiences; first, as an object of Manitou retribution, now as an object of Manitou regeneration. But always, the moment Bertha, returning all odorous from the glades, entered the room, the tossings and the ravings would cease and he would sink into a deep and peaceful sleep, and so remain throughout the livelong night.

At length the imprisoned spirit became so susceptible to the mysterious flowers that the brightening of the wan, young face would begin ere Bertha, returning with a fresh culling of them, had well-nigh entered the house. Of course, this susceptibility comprehended Bertha, too, else she never could have been made the medium of such administration. While engaged in discharging her floral office, she appeared as one in happy trance, never speaking and apparently as oblivious of what was passing around her as Sprigg himself. Always, when she had finished strewing the flowers, she would take her station at the foot of the bed, where, with pretty little arms folded together and resting on the footboard, she would stand gazing fixedly into the unconscious, spirit-like face before her, with a look of dreamy, tender, solemn wonder in her innocent blue eyes, beautiful to behold.

How could poor Sprigg have ever imagined that he had but to put on a pair of red moccasins to captivate the fancy and win the love of such a little angel as Bertha Bryant? Had she seen him so bedizened—"Fop-Indian!" "Jack-Monkey!" would have been the first thoughts to pop into her judicious little head, and Sprigg might have chased her till he had worn his red moccasins slip-shod, and no more have caught her had he, indeed, been a monkey, chasing a dove or a bird of paradise. That he was spared such a humiliation was because he had become by strange chance an object of Manitou interest, and was not allowed to carry out the ridiculous programme he had proposed to himself. What a pity it is that many of us grown-up Spriggs can not become objects of similar interest, to be dealt with in the like manner, even to the bleeding-heart degree, and made to abandon, perforce, many a purpose in life, which, when it is too late to escape the humiliation of its failure, or, worse, still, of its success, proves to be not a whit less paltry or preposterous than the programme our little hero had in view when he donned his red moccasins.



CHAPTER XXI.

The Manitou Butterfly.

On the evening of the seventh day, hardly had Bertha deflowered the bush, when suddenly it burst again into bloom more glorious than ever before. Hardly had the flowers unfolded, when they resolved themselves into a blood-red mist, which quickly enveloped the whole bush, and when it had cleared away the Manitou arbor vitae had vanished—a thing too beautiful to be seen again in a lifetime.

But now, when the last culling of that mysterious life-giving flower was strewn upon him, Sprigg not only smiled with brighter, more present intelligence than at any previous time, but opened his long-closed eyes. And how beautiful his eyes had grown! As uncloudedly clear, as innocently sweet, as those of an infant awaking from a long and untroubled slumber. Raising himself, unassisted, to his elbow, he began gazing about him, though with too dreamy a look for any clear perception of his surroundings. "I am going," said he, talking as dreamily as he looked, and beginning with the falsehood which he had sent back to his mother as he was running away from home—"I am going to our best spring, down there in the edge of the woods, to fetch dear Meg of the Hills a good, cool drink of water. Then I am going to grandpap's house with Nick of the Woods. But where is the fence, and the trees—where are they? And the bright sun? I am still asleep and only dreaming."

So concluding, he lay quietly down again, and closing his eyes, remained perfectly still for some moments, as if to assure himself that he had concluded aright and was really asleep. In a little while, however, he recommenced his dreamy talk, which, with his eyes still closed, and occasional intervals of sleep-like silence, he kept up for many minutes. His words, to those who listened, seemed but the incoherent wandering of a feverish fancy.

"They kiss me, embrace me—weep over me as though I were going to die. I think they mean it for Sprigg; but Sprigg is dead already—passed away into nothing. They have lost him and found me, though they do not seem to know the difference yet. That is the way, I think; or why should they keep on calling me for him? They shall never see their old Sprigg again. Never! Never!" A sleep-like pause.

"Sprigg had a pair of red moccasins—long, long ago, when I was a little, a very little boy. I think he had them; and I think he put them on and wore them, far, far away, when he had been forbidden to do so. Yes, I am sure of it now; for I remember telling him how wrong he was doing, and that he ought not to think of such a thing. But he wouldn't listen to me; he would have his own way. Whither he went, he never knew to his dying day; for his eyes and thoughts were so bewitched by his moccasins that he quite forgot everything else; and, so, soon got completely lost. It was a wild and lonely place where Sprigg found himself when he came to his senses. A great hill, whose top was in a sky all burning and red with the light of the setting sun. Sprigg blamed the moccasins for his mishap; was very angry at them—jerked them from his feet and flung them away. But here they came right back again, walking, walking straight up to him. With the red moccasins came a red mist; and out of the mist would frightful shapes, with long, sharp claws, or long, sharp horns and fiery eyes, come stealing forth, one after one. They scared Sprigg almost to death, and would have torn him to pieces; but ever, just as they would be making to spring upon him, would the red moccasins dart in between—kick them in their ugly eyes and drive them back into the mist.

"By and by Sprigg was moving swiftly through the dark forest—borne onward, he knew not how; and ever before him a great ball of dim, white light. The ball of light sank into the earth, growing brighter and brighter. Sprigg sank with it, deeper, deeper, till far down there he found himself in a world where there was no sun, no moon, and yet was it very bright. Thousands and thousands of little people, all going one way, went gliding swiftly by; so swiftly that they seemed to be on wings. Some of them were very funny to look at; some wild, some savage; but all were beautiful, and all were terrible. Sprigg was desperately afraid of the little people—'Manitous,' they called themselves. Though he need not have feared them; for, let them look as they might, they had no thought for him but love and to do him kindness. I told Sprigg the Manitous were loving him all the time, but he would not believe me. He was too bad to trust them or anybody else.

"Sprigg was a liar—with a lie in his mouth had he sneaked off from home—sneaked off 'like a spit-thief dog.' The Manitous said so; I heard them say it.

"And the Manitous told me how it had happened that Sprigg was such a bad boy; it was because his father and mother had loved him unwisely; and, as they had loved him, so had they trained him. They had made a fool of their boy by making a pet of him, as if he were a pretty little animal, and not a little human creature. They had humored his every whim, excused his every fault, until they had made him so vain, selfish and false that his heart must be made to bleed to bring him to his better self. Yes; and their hearts, too—all must be made to bleed before they could look for happy days again.

"And there on the ground were the shadows of men and women, boys and girls—standing, walking or flitting about, or, all on a sudden, melting away into nothing—and never a human creature to be seen dead or alive. Sprigg's shadow was among them—and a spotted thing it was; so, indeed, were they all. How could such shadows be cast? Sprigg looked up. I tell you, he jumped! What was it he saw? Up there in the sky, where the sun ought to be, there he saw an eye—a great and terrible eye—that looked directly down on him—through him—for, though his body cast a shadow, it was no more in the light of that eye than the clearest glass. Not only through his body, but such a light it was, it shone through his very soul, and showed what a spotted thing it was—spotted all over with lies. To see that eye was to feel that it had been upon you all the days of your life. Yet, terrible as was its glance, love was in it, as well as light—love even for such as Sprigg; but that made him fear it all the more. I told Sprigg to trust the eye; and that he could not do so was because he was too bad a boy to put his trust anywhere. We are all afraid of the love which, without telling us, shows us how wicked we are.

"Sprigg tried to hide from the eye, but he could put nothing between it and himself, which it could not pierce and make no more of than air. Then, in greater terror than ever, he ran from the eye—ran from the Manitous—ran, ran and ran; and now the red moccasins were again on his feet. He could turn them neither this way nor that, nor stop them, nor pull them off; they did with him as they chose. They fled, with the setting sun before them, and with frightful monsters following close behind. The monsters ran more swiftly than the moccasins; they chased Sprigg up into the sky—to the very edge of sunset—and there the moccasins leaped with him from a horrible brink, down, down into the shadows of death. Sprigg was dying, almost dead, when came old Pow-wow and barked over him for joy—licked his bloody face—licked his bleeding wounds. But Sprigg heard not the glad barking, though I did. And I heard something else that Sprigg did not—a tender and beautiful voice close beside him, that said: 'Bleed no more, poor heart! Bleed no more!' Then Sprigg died—passed away into nothing—chased by the Manitous out of the world. That is the way they do. You shall never see your old Sprigg again. Never! Never!! Never!!!"

Here follows an interval of sleep-like silence, longer than any before. In silent wonderment, not unmixed with awe, they stood around him gazing upon his face, which, while so oblivious of outward things, was yet so brightly expressive of a purer, higher intelligence awaking within. It has been remarked that he was, in every way, a handsome boy, even when his face was wont to be more expressive of evil than of good. But with the great inward changes his whole nature had undergone, an outward change had taken place, which amounted almost to transfiguration—so spiritually beautiful now was his appearance. His words, however fantastic and incoherent they may have seemed to the others present, came burdened with a deep significance to his father, and to his mother, also; for, by this time, Jervis had told Elster of his singular interview with Nick of the Woods. A significance the deeper, since every word struck home to hearts, conscience-stricken and full of self-upbraiding.

Long before the period of our first acquaintance with them had Jervis and Elster begun to feel and acknowledge to each other the grievous mistake they had made in the training of their son, bestowing upon him their abundant affection, untempered by that judicious and habitual exercise of controlling will, without which, parental love but forestalls the very ends it has nearest at heart—the good and the happiness of the offspring. Gold can not be too rich, where only ornament is the object in view; but it needs to be alloyed with silver to be made firm and consistent enough to meet the ends of uses. Their love, from very richness, had been of too soft and yielding a nature to fashion the character of their child into the thing of beauty for which its maker had designed it. Now, had he returned, as it were, from the dead, to upbraid them with the wrong they had done him. All unwittingly had he ministered the rebuke; perhaps, on being restored to his normal self, should never remember what he had done. Yet, for that very reason, all the more bitter was the reflection, since it showed how deep the wrong was, if his innermost soul could be cognizant of it and speak out in his vindication, while his more external nature was as yet incapable of knowing or comprehending it. What remorse they felt at the thought of the sore affliction, which, by their folly, they had brought upon his young life; what good resolutions they formed, looking to atonement and recompense; what prayers they offered up for forgiveness of the past, and for guidance in the future—must be left to the heart and conscience of every judicious parent to conceive.

After some minutes the boy resumed, still with his eyes closed, the windows of the tenement shut, but the light from within shining through the translucent walls.

"Some one is here, who goes and comes as goes and comes none else. Her step is light, her touch soft, her voice gentle and low. I love to have her near me. Where she is can come no evil thing. Wild dreams stand at the door, waiting for her to go away, when they come slipping in to dance around me, to laugh at me, to point the mocking finger at me—sometimes, to scowl and frown upon me. They are after Sprigg, to vex and frighten him, and think that I am he. But the moment she comes back, out they go skipping by another door—make all the haste they can to get away. They are afraid of her, as is every evil thing, because she is as God, in the beginning, made her—all love and truth.

"Sometimes she comes, bringing with her the pleasant smell of the woods—the fresh, green, beautiful woods I love so much. She seems to bring with her the sky, too, so sunny her presence makes all around me; and once more I am happy—so full of rest and sleep. That smell of the woods—it never comes, but I feel as if Meg of the Hills must be near, with her crown of crimson flowers; so wonderful—it is bliss to see their beauty, life to breathe their sweetness. Surely she who goes and comes must have found these flowers and brought them to me! Else I had never been here where I am, this what I am. I think she must be near me now. I will see."

So saying, and before he had fairly reopened his eyes, our Manitou butterfly, now nearly ready to spurn the chrysalis, raised himself again to his elbow and took another dreamy survey of the room. His eyes, however, seemed to find no object to rest on, until they met a pair as dreamy as themselves—the innocent, blue ones, there at the foot of his bed, through which a soul was looking so directly into his own that he could no longer but be cognizant of a fellow creature's presence.

"Yes, there she is. But she looks like Bertha, and Bertha is not a little angel, like the one who goes and comes. Though, if she is not, it must be because the good angels have not yet taken her to themselves; for, now that I see her better, she looks enough like an angel to be the one who goes and comes. Can it be that Meg of the Hills has sent Bertha to me with these flowers, but for which—the life that is in them—I must have died. Yes, that's the reason why; at least, I think it is.

"But, who are these?" Beginning at last to have some dim perception of his actual surroundings. "These are they who have kissed me, embraced me, wept over me, as though I were going to die. Will they do so still? I think not; for they mean it for Sprigg, and Sprigg is dead already—passed away into nothing. They shall never see their old Sprigg again—never, never, never! But they may call me Sprigg if they like. And this pretty woman here, who is laughing and crying both at once, I will call her mother. And this big man, who looks glad enough to laugh and sorry enough to cry, and can't do either, I will call him father."

Sprigg never called them "pap" and "mam" again, the longest day he lived. Neither did Jervis and Elster ever again, the longest day they lived, say "my dear son," without putting in the fond words as much silver for will, as gold for love.

"Yes, and that is just the way it really is, after all! Father, mother; yes, and grandpap, too, and grandmam, and others whose names I ought to know, but do not. All are here—none missing. No, not all, either; I do not see dear old Pow-wow. And I must see him. He will make me laugh, and I must laugh, or I may die yet. I thought I heard him bark but now."



CHAPTER XXII.

Pow-wow.

Pow-wow had not barked within hearing of the fort since the evening he had found his little master down there at the foot of the precipice. He had gone and come, hastening back when he went, lingering when he came—a silent, sad and thoughtful dog. By some inscrutable operation of instinct he had soon discovered that the errands which led Ben and Bertha daily abroad had a reference in some way to the wants of his unfortunate little friend, and that, therefore, it was his bounden duty to lend a helping hand. Accordingly he had divided his time about equally between the two young people; helping the one about the wild herds of the forest, the other about the tame herds of the field. In the morning he would follow the young hunter to the distant lick, and, having acquitted himself in the chase, with his wonted address, he would hasten back to the fort, leaving his companion to follow at that plodding pace peculiar to two-footed animals, and so irksome to dogs, to accommodate themselves to which they must needs trot out, on a magnified scale, the ground plan of a straggling worm fence, with wide digression to right and left; now to sniff at a stump, then to bark down a sinkhole. In the afternoon he would accompany Bertha to the bluegrass glades, where he would take her charge so completely upon himself as to leave her nothing to do but clamber up the hill for a fresh culling of flowers, then follow him, as homeward he drove the cows.

When not occupied thus, he would station himself on the porch at the door of the sick room, looking up wistfully into every face that passed him, in the poor, dumb, asking way, which so endears a dog to us when the shadow of death is on our home. He had never ventured to intrude himself into the house, but now that he was called, the grateful look and humble alertness with which he answered the summons testified how earnestly he had wished to do all along. Setting his feet as carefully on the floor as were he shod with heavy shoes, that, too, without a warning whisper in the ear from Ben's mother, he slowly walked up to the bedside and softly ran his huge head under the little hand, so white and wan, extended to greet and caress him. Pow-wow licked the hand in the dear old way, and the familiar sensation helped, not a little, to reassure the boy of his own identity and make him more present to the state of things around him. And it was strange how much more natural his voice and manner became the moment he began speaking to his old play-fellow; though what he spoke was hardly less fantastic or more coherent than the greater part of what he had spoken already.

"Pow-wow, is it really you, old pard, and no mistake? And are we all alive and here at grandpap's house, and no dreaming about it? (Pausing to pat the old dog's head.) Pow-wow, did Nick of the Woods ever give you a pair of red moccasins? No, he never did, because he knew you weren't a fool. (Here closing his eyes and seeming for a moment to forget the dog.) Pow-wow, were you ever chased by the Manitous? No, you never were, for you never sneaked away from home with a lie in your mouth, like a spit-thief dog. (Again closing his eyes for a few moments, to open them again and add:) The Manitous chase nobody but bad people, and chase them only to make them good. (Pausing to play with the old dog's ear.) And so they have chased your old Sprigg, Pow-wow; chased him out of the world! You shall never see your old friend Sprigg again! Never! Never! Never!" (Now giving the old dog's ragged ear a certain pluck which had always been well understood between them.)

At each repetition of his name the only part of his little master's speech which had any sound of English to his ear, Pow-wow would fall to wagging his tail in a hearty, emphatic manner, as were he, Chinaman-like, shaking hands with himself over the glad event of the day. But on receiving the pluck of the ear, in the dear old way, the dear old fellow, quick to take the hint, gave vent to a sort of double yelp, peculiar to him when in a waggish humor—a smothered nasal "boo-woo," so irresistibly ludicrous that it had always made Sprigg laugh, as now it did, right heartily. This is but the prelude to what needs must follow. Up he rears himself on his hind legs, snaps at the imaginary bone thrown up by an imaginary hand, catches it in his mouth, drops with it to the floor, and, stretching himself out at full length, pretends to gnaw what he pretends to hold between his paws. But this was Pow-wow's only accomplishment—fancy accomplishment, I mean—for he was a finished hunter and a finishing fighter, and we have seen for ourselves that he knew exactly what to do with cows when he went with a nice little girl to the pasture to help her drive them home. Therefore, finding himself at the end of his programme sooner than the occasion seemed to demand, he raised himself to his haunches and looked around him with a deprecating air, as if he would fain apologize for his deficiencies.

Hardly, however, could the apology have been expressed in words, when up he bounces again to his hind feet and begins executing a series of antics, so fantastic and undog-like that they who witnessed them were quite as much astonished as amused. Jervis Whitney himself, than whom there was not a man in the hunter's paradise more deeply versed in dogs and their ways, and who thought he knew his own dog from head to tail and back again, was even more astonished than the rest. Had old Mother Hubbard and her far-famed dog risen from their honored graves and, presenting themselves before our friends, repeated the dear old programme, from the cupboard so bare, to the bier so sad, with the fruits and the flue, the tripe and the pipe, the wig and the jig, and all the other fondly remembered marvels between—scarcely could the effect have been more startling.

Now, Pow-wow's antics on this occasion, unaccountable as they seemed to those who witnessed them, and must seem to the more sober class of my readers, admit of perfectly rational explanation, give them only Manitou ground to rest on. Nick of the Woods and Meg of the Hills, who knew as well as anybody—better, I fear, than many a human body—that there are few things more wholesome for us poor mortals than hearty, unrestrained, unrestrainable, innocent laughter, had decided between them that, in order to put his case beyond all human or superhuman possibility of relapse, Sprigg should have some hearty laughter. Accordingly, they had sent one of their dog-robed, dog-natured elves to tinker and conjure with Pow-wow's tail, and through that sensitive member, as a medium, telegraph, as it were, such fancies to his sober old noddle as should, for a brief space, set him quite beside himself. In other words, set him to acting the human, according to the monkey conception of the character. A conception so nearly suits an occasional specimen of the model race as scarcely to be deemed caricature.

And Sprigg did laugh—laughed till his sore sides ached—laughed "fit to die," as they say, when they mean the very opposite—"fit to live." After such a laugh, Sprigg was in no more danger of dying than had all the doctors, with their doses; all the preachers, with their prayers, stood between him and the grave. Of course, everybody else was laughing; not but that they felt still more inclined to cry, so touching was it to witness the old dog's clumsy playfulness and the little sufferer's spasmodic merriment—for spasmodic it needs must be, as yet, though so hearty, heart-easing and wholesome. Indeed, there are few things more pathetical than the innocent mirth of the young heart, over whose dawning existence has already fallen, though but for a brief space, the shadow of the inevitable hour. And I will venture to affirm, upon the strength of my own experience and observation, that if you, my gentle reader, had been present and witnessed, without both tears and laughter, the scene I am describing, you would be as fit a subject for a "putting through" as ever was poor Sprigg; and that, sooner or later for your fuller humanizing, you must run the Manitou gauntlet. And whether you run it in red moccasins or in split-leather Yankee shoes, all one will it be to Nick of the Woods!



CHAPTER XXIII.

Young Ben Logan.

Pow-wow was still performing, Sprigg still laughing, the rest of the company still in a maze of delighted bewilderment, when, home from the forest, in came rolling young Ben Logan. He had heard the good news at the gate, and now, as if feeling there was no further need of his being tender-footed, he came lumbering through the house, making every loose board he trod on a speaking witness to the joy of his heart. "Actions speak louder than words," so they say; and yet it does so happen sometimes, but very rarely, mind you, that what they say is a good deal louder than what they do. At sight of the young hunter, Pow-wow had cut short his antics, or, rather, was made to cut them short—the Manitou inspiration, to which they had been due, departing from him as suddenly as it had entered; and subsiding to his haunches, he became in an instant as quiet and solemn as a tumbler between cues. In the joy of the moment, Ben had forgotten to leave his rifle at the door, and now, with it in his left hand rested on the floor, he stood by the bedside of his strangely fated little friend, a heroic smell of gunpowder and buckskin boisterous in the air about him, and on his face a look of benignant wonderment, as he gazed down into the newly reopened eyes, whose light had so well nigh been lost in the shadows of death. Bright and clear as were the eyes turned up to his own, they were still hardly capable of more than a dreamy perception of what they looked on. Taking the little hand, so white and wan, in his own huge, powder-begrimed paw, and shaking it gently from side to side, in a wag-tail way, Ben, after some moments of silence, said:

"Howd'y do, Sprigg?"

"My name is Sprigg, then, sure enough?"

"If it isn't I don't know the man I'm talking to; never did—stranger to me."

"And is your name Ben Logan?"

"If it isn't I don't know the man that's talking to you; never did—stranger to me."

"And these two pretty people here, are they my father and mother, really, now?"

"If they ain't so now, they never were so and never will be so, in this world." Delivered with much solemnity and some stress on "now" and "this."

"And this place, where we all are, is it really grandpap's house, and no mistake?"

"If it isn't you can't prove it by me. It's just where I left just such a house this morning, though it doesn't look much like the same place, either, with you wide awake in it, and old Pow-wow on his hind legs in it, and both so jolly."

"And that little girl there, at the foot of my bed, is her name Bertha?"

Here Ben paused before answering, regarding the person referred to with a look of some perplexity. "Well, she used to answer to that name, but here lately she don't answer to any when I call her; goes about like one in a traveling dream. There she stands, a-gazing at you with a far-off look in her eyes, as though you were on the other side of the Kentucky river, and not a living thing anear you. Bertha!" Here Ben elevated his voice a little. Bertha turned her eyes toward the speaker, though apparently with as little perception of his actual presence as though he were lying at the bottom of the river he had named. "There, you see how she does, and that's the way she's doing all the time. When she wakes up she won't know any more for a minute where she is than you did, before I told you. She's either in love, or fixing to be a ghost."

What young Ben Logan meant by this concluding remark were hard to imagine; unless, indeed, he had in his mind the idea of a little angel, when he said "ghost." After receiving each answer, Sprigg would pause for a few moments to consider what he had heard and assure himself of its meaning before proceeding further. Now, after a somewhat longer pause than before, he put the startling question:

"Ben, did you ever see Nick of the Woods?" To which he received the equally startling answer:

"Well, if I didn't see him to-day, it wasn't because I didn't stare with all the eyes I had. I never saw the woods behave so in all my life before. There a tree, just one tree, would fall to waving its limbs and shaking its leaves, making the liveliest flutter, and all the rest of the trees as still as mice when the cat's about. And there went smoke a-rolling up in puffs as big as feather beds, and not a sign of fire to show for it, that I could see. And there went fire a-shooting up in flames higher than my head, and not the sign of a stick of wood to show for it, that I could see. And here went shadows, skipping and dodging about, and not the sign of a living thing to do the skipping and dodging, that I could see. And there were voices all about me—some on this side, others on that; some close at my ear, and others far away—all talking the strangest gibberish, and not the sign of a living thing to do the talking, that I could see."

"Weren't you terribly frightened, Ben?"

"Well, at first I did feel queer—just a little queer, up and down the back and about the roots of my hair—but just as I had cocked my gun, and was looking about me for something to let fly at—plump! It was all gone as quick as the blowing out of a candle. Then I felt a little better, and after a short while a great deal better—real good and easy. I don't know why, but it's just so."

Each time, after giving his answer, and while Sprigg would be pausing to consider it, Ben would fill up the interval with another wag-tail shake of the hand he still held in his own, thereby lengthening out his answer with something he had omitted to express in words. Now, after two or three of the supplementary shakes, he did bethink him to put the something else in words.

"But, Sprigg, you are looking a great deal better than I expected to find you. Though I needn't wonder so much at that, either, for they wanted to feed you on trash—squirrels and birds, and I wouldn't let 'em. Tell us—me and Pow-wow—how you liked the buffalo we brought home for you yesterday?"

"Oh, very much, I am sure."

"And the fat, young bear we brought you the day before yesterday?"

"Better still, I am certain."

"And the fat, young buck we brought you the day before that?"

"Best of all; and if I didn't tell you so at the time it was because I was asleep and thinking about something else. And now I am beginning to find out what my heart has been trying to tell me all this while. I see it in Bertha's face. I see it in Ben's face—in the face of every one here—how good and kind you have been to me since I have been lying here; and I so undeserving. I should be thankful you had kept me alive, were it but to tell you how I love you all as I have never loved any one before."

Now were the tears in his eyes, which, up to this moment, had been so bright and clear—tears that went on telling the gratitude and love which the lips had left but half expressed. Ben had already had some two or three little spells of filling up and choking down; of feeling soft and breathing hard, so touching was it, so touching is it always to witness the gratitude of the poor human heart to poor human love for poor human life; and this was just more than the good fellow could bear without some noise. Abruptly checking himself in the midst of another wag-tail shake, he laid the little hand on the bed as carefully as you would a glass of water on the table, right side up, and hurried out of the house like one who had overstayed his time and must rush to make ends meet. He went no farther, however, than just out of doors, where, finding room for his heart to expand in, roared out in a voice perfectly tremendous for one of his age:

"Hurrah for General Washington! Hurrah for Colonel Boone! Hurrah for Sprigg!" And bang! went his gun.



CHAPTER XXIV.

Little Bertha.

Up to this moment Bertha had remained a delighted, though half-unconscious, spectator of what was passing. While Sprigg was unbosoming, all unwittingly, his Manitou experiences, her innocent eyes, without losing their look of dreamy, solemn wonder, had gradually brightened with unwonted intelligence, mixed with delight, as were she beholding, in their truer and more benign aspect, the marvels which had revealed themselves to him in shapes of terror and retribution. Of course, what Bertha saw and heard she only comprehended in part what had been revealed; yet was she and ever would be the wiser and the happier for the seeing and the hearing.

But now, with the young stentor's uncouth roar of joy, shaking the infant settlement from center to circumference, snapped was the Manitou spell, broken the Manitou dream. Gliding out of the house; away, like a bird, to the woods she fluttered, there, all unobserved, she fell to dancing about for very thankfulness and joy, the evening sunbeams dancing with her, as were she a sunbeam, too in human likeness.

"Oh! could I but tell him, who loves little children, how thankful, how happy I am! But I'm only a little girl, and don't know how!"

Thus spoke innocent Bertha, dancing all the while, and dancing all the blither for not knowing how to tell it—so ready is heaven to compensate our lackings when love is in our hearts. And yet she had told it better than she knew; for, though the body was dancing, the soul was kneeling; and such a soul, so lovely and so bright, that the good Manitous—those who were crowned with the crimson flowers, and those who wore the wings and plumes of beautiful birds—came flitting to her, drawn by sweet attraction. One minute, they joined hands and wheeled their unseen ring around the human innocent, their presence filling the air with perfume delectable to breathe. Then, suddenly parting, each at a tangent to the whirling circle, away they flew to bear the good news far and wide. And the good news went to many a father and many a mother; and, though it came from unseen lips, in unheard words, it left a shining in the eyes, a burning in the heart, which told it had been spoken; and many a son and daughter of the red race, looking westward, whispered:

When thus smiles the setting sun, Lo! a Manitou race is run; All's well ended all's well done— Wahkontonka wills it.

Ever thus still sets the sun, Ever thus the race is run, Ever thus all things well done— Wahkontonka wills it.

THE END