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106 in having my son in the close connection of class mate and room-mate with him.” Mrs. Mitten returned the compliment by re peating what she said upon hearing that her son had fallen into the same room and class with the Doctor’s son, only changing the terms of the compliment so far as to accommodate it to the Doctor’s ear. “And now,” continued Doctor Hay, “you must tarry with me to-morrow night on your way home. Let us go over to Petersburg this after noon, stay there to-night, take an early start in the morning, and (barring accidents) we will reach my house by dinner time or a little alter. There rest until the next morning, when if I can't prevail on you to stay longer, I will give you an early breakfast and set you on your way in time to get home, without traveling much in the heat of the day.” The invitation was cordially accepted, and as soon as one of ’William’s small trunks could be packed with selections from his ward robe for the summer vacation, and Mrs. Mitten could renew her invitations and promises to the few ladies who had not left, and return her thanksgiving to Mr. and Mrs. Newby for their kindness to her son, and their hospitality to herself, and kiss Miss Thompson because she bore the family namo and both knew they must be related, though neither could tell how, and give each of the house-servants a quarter of a dollar apiece for being willing to do for her all that Tom did, and a dollar to the wash-woman for extra services, and a half dollar (sent) to the ostler for tear that he might bo disappointed aud her brother forget him—Mrs. Mitten was ready to depart. While all this was transacting.the chaise was at the fence, Doctor Hay was sitting in his sulky, Gilbert was mounted on his father’s horse Silver heels, William on Snap-dragon, and Captain Thompson at the door getting. comfortable fast. The Captain escorted his sister to the chaise, she took her seat, the Captain took his, and off went the happiest company that ever moved from Willington. Nothing of interest occurred on the way to Petersburg; for Mrs. Mitten, having to send back for her veil just as she reached Doctor Waddel’s,was not even attended with inconvenience, as she declared that she could not think of passing by Mr. Waddel’s door without lighting aud bidding him good-bye and thanking him for his kindness to her son.— These little duties consumed exactly the time needful for recovering the veil. It gave the Captain, too, an opportunity of charging William and Tom to notice well the road, so that either of them might fiud it without difficulty on their return. Doctor Hay’s servant, Quash, went back for the missing article, and strange to say, found it readily. The dusk of the evening found the companv at Mrs. Ragland’s, in Petersburg. The reader will naturally enquire where the immense throng which attended Doctor Wad del's Exhibitions found accommodation. We answer, at all the houses within six or seven miles of Willington, and at the four villages of ’ Lisbon, Petersburg, Vienna, and Richmond.— The three first were tolerably thrifty little vil lages at the time of which we are speaking. Petersburg was quite an active, busy, commer cial little town. It was situated in the fork of the Savannah and Broad Rivers, and contained some eight or ten stores, with the usual supple ment of grog-shops, and the very unusual sup plement, of a billiard-table. Notwithstan ding these last, the citizens of the place were generally remarkable -for their refinement, re spectability, intelligence and hospitality. The dwelling houses far outnumbered the stores and shops. It was separated from Lisbon by Broad River, and from V ienna by the Savannah. Lis bon wo believe could never boast of more than two stores and a groggery.and as many dwellings. Vienna surpassed Lisbon in every tiling, but ex actly how far, and in what we are not able to say, e veept in John Glover’s house and store, which had no match in Lisbon. The road leading to Willing’ ton from Vienna ascended a hill, about a mile from the latter place, which was crowned with Richmond. This town was very compactly built. It consisted of one dwelling house, one doctor’s shop, one kitchen, one stable, one corn crib, and one smoke house. Its white popula tion consisted of Doctor Thomas Casey, his wife, one or two children, and Warter (or Walter) Beckly, a student of medicine. Neither of the four towns surpassed this in hospitality. Doctor Casey’s house was open to all, and his heart was as open. as his house—so was his wife's. It was a great resort of the beaux and belles of the neighboring villages; here they were always made welcome and happy. In these villages, the remotest «f which was not over seven miles from Willington, was ample en tertainment for all who attended the Exhibition, and could not procure it elsewhere. Captain Thompson and Mrs. Mitten spent a happy night at Doctor Hay’s, and were at home the next day by five in the afternoon. As they stopped at Mrs. M.’s door, the Captain inquired of William how he liked Snap-dragon. “Oh! lam delighted with him, Uncle. I think lie’s the finest horse I ever saw." “Well, he’s yours, my son. So you see if your Uncle scolds when you do ill, lie rewards handsomely when you do well” “Oh! thank you, thank you, Uncle, a thousand times. You never will find me doing ill again, I promise you. lam so glad that you sent me to Mr. Waddel’s. lam so glad that you would not allow me to leave there when I wanted to—you have been, you are a father to me, and the very best of fatli ” “Well, that’ll do, my son—you paid me for him before I gave him to yon. Remember your pledges, as often as you ride him!” Alas, Captain! where was your usual fore cast when you made this present ? * [to be continued.] —♦♦♦ -mm— Wiiat a Good Periodical May Do. —Show us an intelligent family of boys and girls, and we will show you a family where newspapers and periodicals are plentiful. Nobody who lias been without these silent private tutors can know their educating power for good or evil.— Have you never thought of the innumerable topics of discussion wfiich they suggest at the breakfast table, the important public measures with which, thus early, our children become fa miliarly acquainted: great philanthropic ques tions of the day, to which unconsciously their attention is awakened, and the general spirit of intelligence which is evoked by these quiet visi . tors? Anything that makes home pleasant, cheerful and chatty, thins the haunts of vice and the thousand and one avenues of tempt ition, should certainly be regarded, when we considf r its influence on the minds of the young, as a great moral and social blessing.— Emerson. The new Light-House of the first class, for Cape Charles, Va., for which the sum of $35 - 000 was appropriated in March, 1856, has been commenced, and will lie pushed forward to completion with all despatch. This superb tow er will be one hundred and fifty feet in height, and will warn the mariner of his approach to the Chesapeake at a distance of eighteen to twenty miles. best of fatli ” sotrtHK&M aras&a em© rauuttM. [Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.] TEE KATY DID’S SONG. BY M. Ml OP WALNUT GBOVK. The Katy-dids song in the evening hour. My spirit comes o’er with witching power: Though shrill and harsh be the notes to some. 'Tis sadly and sweetly to me They come! They carry me back to the old homestead. Where the lored and lost, and the early dead All live again, and I seem to dwell In the childhood's home that I loved so well. Its notes are the same, that were sung of yore. In the tall old trees by onr cottage door, While the gray-haired sire sat listening by. To the harsh shrill notes of its evening cry. And a gentle mother is sitting near— And the soft blue eyes of a sister dear Are beaming upon me with looks of love, Such as angels wear in their home above! The tremulous moonbeams softly fall On the oaken floor, in the wide old hall. Where no sound is heard in the twilight hour, Save the Katy-did's note from her leafy bower. The fire-fly’s fitful light is seen Anon, through the deep’ning leaves of green, And the glow-worm lies like a fallen star Dropped from its place in the sky afar. Oh! ’tis to the simplest homely things. That memory ever most fondly clings! And I love the Katy-did's evening song, For the memories dear that with it throng! Lone years have passed! The cypress waves Its drooping boughs over three dear graves,— And the simple jessamine, planted nlgb, , Weeps perfumed dew where the loved ones lie. And ever, now, when the Katy-did sings, And the evening hour'its twilight brings, I go back in dreams to the old homestead, Where the loved and lost, and the early dead. All live once more, and I seem todwell. In the childhood's home, that I loved so well 1 July 10th, 1859. ——w- [Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.] ALIENE, OK THE RECOVERED TREASURE. A PRIZE TALE. BY MAtJD MORETON. “Time at last makt-s all things even. For if we do but bide the hour. There never yet was human power That could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search, and vigil long. Os him, who treasures up a wrong!’’ A year had now passed since the painful trag edy of tho little Indian’s death, and, except by the immediate family of Mr. Moreland, the sad event was almost forgotten. It was always with powerful feelings that it was ever alluded to, and so exciting was it to the tender sympathies of the gentle-hearted mother, that gradually the subject was allowed to rest in unbroken silence. One morning Mr. Moreland remarked, looking up from his paper: “Wife, did you know that Bald Eagle has sold off the whole of his broad acres, and in a spirit of utter disgust, and intense exasperation, is preparing to follow his tribe to their new home, beyond the mountains, in tho extreme west ?” “No, I did not know he was going, but, poor man, I don’t wonder at it, for if I feel so much when I think of little Tenawkea’s sad fate, what must be his feelings ? But I am sorry for the sake of his son Yula, that he means to remove so far from any chance of civilizing, or what is more important, christianizing the young boy.” ‘Christianizing!’ oh! you ladies are so ro mantic in your notions. Indians repel all such ideas with disdain. But lam really sorry for the Indian, for he has naturally some fine traits, but this last misfortune has distorted his better qualities, and I really fear he meditates us an injury, his manners are so changed, so cold, and uncertain.” “Oh! I expect not; we have never intention ally wronged him.” The conversation dropped, but an uncomfor table feeling rested with Mrs. Moreland, as she pondered her husband's last words. Yula had never once been seen near his old haunts. His light figure reclined no more on the grassy banks of tlie dashing stream, or guided his drifting canoe over its sparkling wa ters. His fleet foot never again threaded the mazy windings of the forest, or bounded lightly upon the distant hills. The country around was gradually receiving tho impress of civilization. The graceful grain waved over gently undulating fields—the nod ding plumes of the gteen corn swayed in the summer wind—unbroken rows of the young cotton plant stretched in long lines, and glittered with blossoms of paly gold, as far as eye could reach. The lowing of cattle was heard on the hills, where lately resounded the wild yell of the Indians, who lately roamed masters of the wide domain. The whole air was vocal with sounds of industry—the teeming earth smiled, a glowiug picture of peace aud prosperity. Substantial farm houses dotted the plains, thriving villages and flourishing towns sprang up as if by magic, in the midst of the forest so lately the hunting grounds of the receding red man. Stately mansions and simple cottages afforded refuge to the lofty and the humble, the proud possessor of far stretching tracts, and the lowly cultivator of fewer acres. One morning Mr. Moreland left home upon business, to the neighboring town, and calling Aliene to his side, said: “1 am going into town; what shall I bring my little daughter, when I come back?" “Oh! briug me something pretty, papa, no toys, for I have a plenty, but I do want a pretty bird that can sing—please bring me one.” “ Well, ifyou are good and obey mamma, I will bring you something that will please you, but I cannot promise it will be a bird.” “ I will try and be ever so good, but you must be sure not to forget, papa.” “ Well, good bye, Aliene, I shall see you soon again. Watch for mo at the gate, this evening.” He left her at the door, of liis home, with his fond kisses still warm on her cheek, and the bright tear-drop moistening her soft lashes, as she watched his retreating form, moving slowly away in the distance. The morning fleeted swiftly and happily to the little circle at home, engaged in their pleas ant labors of love for the comfort and happiness of the household. Mrs. Moreland, moving quiet ly, in her unobtrusive,but useful life, was cheer ful and occupied. The little girl roved around, with a pleased anticipation of her father’s re turn ; and wild conjectures as to the welcome he was to bring her, chased through her busy little brain. The most improbable suggestions— the wildest guesses—the strangest fancies, fell from her voluble little tongue, and diverted in- to smiles the listening mother. Merrily, but all too slowly, passed the morning to the happy child, swiftly and pleasantly to the much enga ged parent The dinner hour came at length, ane half the day was over— then seemed the minutes lengthening into hours, —the hours ex panding interminably to the watching little girl. The noontide weariness of that long summer day induced Mrs. Moreland to seek a few mo ments’ repose, and placing her infant beside her, she lay down upon tho couch, in her shaded and quiet room. Tying on her little girl’s hat, —she said, “Alione, you may go out to play, but be sure to keep will tin sight, and under shelter of tho trees, and on no account leave the premises.— Daphne, go with her. and let nothing harm her, do not leave her for a moment. Kiss me, my darling, and now run out to play, while I lie down for a while.” The stillness and quiet of the hour, when all nature seems to pause and rest, and invite to repose, and the lassitude of her frame, induced a lengthened sleep. The few moments stretch ed into hours, and still the worn mother slept on—the little child by her side, moving restless ly, and again falling gently into slumber. With a start she at length awoke, and beheld the departing rays of the golden sunset, lighting up lawn and woods, sky and stream. She rose hastily,and leaving the still sleeping infant, she left her chamber, and descended to the piaz za, upon which was streaming a perfect flood of the purple and golden glory that illumined the western sky. Meantime the little Aliene, wearied with the quietude around and forgetful of the caution of her mother, left her nurse and strolled out upon tho lawn, intending to watch for her father, and the promised gift so eagerly anticipated.— Heedless of her mother’s parting words, she rambled thoughtlessly into the woods, that so temptingly invited her roving little feet and rest less young spirit into their embowering shade and breezy coolness. The birds, the flowers, the glancing waters of the babbling stream, all seemed to lure her on, unconscious of danger,— for how could danger reach her annd so peaceful a scene. She rambled_on, and on, —her child’s voice ringing out its glad music, in gushes of untaught melody, and her free spirit reveling in the ravishing beauty and wealth of a bounteous and lavish nature. A sombre shadow fell athwart the sunny pathway—a tall form glided from the woods —a noiseless step drew near to the careless little wanderer, aud a strong brown hand was laid oq the fair shoulder, of the happy and unconscious child. She turned, and looking up, saw the dark face of a red man, flashing forth fierce looks of mingled resentment and triumph. She did not scream, for no fear appalled the bravo heart of the little girl. Long accustomed to the sight of the Indians in tho neighborhood of her home, she had no apprehensions of their pres ence, no distrust of their good feeling. Look ing up, with a fearless expression, she frankly held out her baby hand, and when he lifted her up in his strong arms, she felt no emotion of fear, but prattled on volubly to the stern figure, who, with rapid tread, was bearing her on, and still on, into the deepening forest. CHAPTER VI. “I have raised thee from the grave sod, By the white man's |>ath defiled; On to th'ancestral wilderness, I bear thy dust, my child!” The parting rays of the setting sun were casting their lengthening shadows upon woods and lawn, and distant hills, as Mr. Moreland drew near his home. Alighting at the gate, ho called aloud, “Aliene, Alieue, come hither,” and approaching the house, he looked around, expecting to see her little figure bounding from the door, in glad expectation and delight. “ Aliene, Aliene,” again called OHt Mr. More land, and “Aliene, Aliene,” was echoed in low guttural tones, by a voice proceeding from the small cage that was swinging from his arm.— The bright green plumage of a parrot, with sparkling eyes, and head curiously aslant, turn ing from one side to another, with singular and speculating look, fluttered in the cage. This was tlie intended gift of the fond father to the glancing little fairy of his home. The mother came out to receive her husband, and to examine the brilliant plumage of the im prisoned bird, and to listen to the guttural enun ciation of the loved name. Mr. Moreland had amused himself on his way home in teaching the bird to call her name, as a surprise and de light to his little girl. “Where is Aliene?” said Mr. Moreland, “I thought she would have been the first to wel come me home.” “ She is playing about somewhere,” said her mother. “Daphne" turning to the little sable maid, “call Aliene; w r here is she ?” “ I don’t know ma’m,” said the girl, “I thought she was with you." “Bring her here, then,” quietly said her mo ther. “Tell her, papa has come and brought her a little bird that can talk.” “Miss Aliene ! Miss Aliene !” called aloud the ebony Daphne,—and “Aliene, Aliene” was re peated by the parrot, apparently delighted with the music of the sweet name, and charmed with his acquisition of a new sound. But still no Aliene answered to the repeated call, and an expression of unuttered anxiety began to gather on the features of the fond pa rents. Not caring to give utterance to fears that seemed too dreadful for comprehension, they entered the house, and called again on the little girl; but no sweet voice responded, no light fig ure appeared in the door-way, to relieve the fears which began to stir secretly in their hearts. The servants were called up, and dispatched in every direction, in search of the missing child. Her soft name was given back, in prolonged echoes, from tho surrounding hills, as it rose, and floated in quivering notes, from the trembling voice of parental love. Fear was startled into agonizing certainty of brooding ill. Mr. More land left the house, remounted his horse, and dashed off m quest of the little wanderer. The panic-stricken mother, with an intolera ble agony clutching at her heart-strings, wrung her hands in helpless misery, and darted to and fro ‘through the house, through garden and grounds, through lawn and grove, calling aloud. Anguish and horror were stamped upon her fea tures, and dismay and terror sickened her soul. In the last half hour, fear had pressed ages on her brow ; and her dilated eye, her blanched cheek and quivering lip told of the agony bat tling within. But night was closing in, and still no Aliene appeared. Lights glanced from the open win dows out upon the lawn and the surrounding gloom—the brooding of a coming ill seemed to settle upon the heavy atmosphere. The dis tracted household flew about without aim or purpose. Neighbors called in, and joining in the now developed apprehension, offered their ser vices, and touchingly testified their sympathy. The woods were searched, lights glanced through the darkened depths of the forest— voices called aloud—active feet roamed untrod den paths—sharp eyes penetrated the misty gloom of thickening woods. The banks of the dashing steam were visited —its sparkling wa ters dragged. Its ever murmuring voice, in soft lullaby, went singing on—its music telling no tales, revealing no secrets, of its hidden depths. The whole night was passed in fruitless search —but no trace of the missing child, no clue to her wanderings, rewarded their efforts, or relieved their anxieties. At early dawn, miles away from his home, upon an old Indian trail, Mr. Moreland picked up a tiny slipper, and fur ther on, in tho damp grass, lay a little straw hat with its floating ribbon, which, with a fearful pang, the fond father recognized as belonging to his little girl. Like a crashing bolt of thunder in a serene sky, came the dreadful apprehension that now paralyzed his heart The Indian, with his dogged revengeful nature, seemed to glare upon him with flashing eyes, from the gloom of the misty forest —his unquenchable thirst for vengeance seemed to be lapping his heart’s blood, as he gazed upon the tiny slipper and held up the hat with its drooping ribbon. Upon consultation with his friends, he deter mined to retrace his steps, and banding together, with reinforced strength, to hunt the savage red man into the deepest recesses of the forest. On his way home, he turned aside to the old home of “Bald Eagle,” not many miles off. As he drew near, fear almost became reality as he looked upon the dilapidated appearance of all around. The mde wigwam was without fire, or other sign of having been lately occupied. The ashes were dead and cold upon the hearth-stone, —the doors flapped heavily in the wind—broken arti cles of rude furniture and coarse earthern ware lay in fragments around, —and not a vestige of life remained; all was desolation and decay. He turned with a sick heart. A conviction of the fearful truth seemed to fasten its fangs upon his scorched brain. On leaving this scene of desolation, he passed by a large tumulus, or mound, sacred with the Indians as tho resting place of their fathers, who now roamed the “happy hunting grounds” in the presence of the Great Spirit, Manitou.— He saw a fresh opening at the side, as if some object had been recently disinterred. He re membered the spot instantly. Here had been laid the little form of tho poor boy who fell a victim to the too faithful guardianship, of the watchful dog. This sight gave added confirma tion of his worst fears. His little girl was in the hands of his merciless foe—the ruthless red man. His course was now plain, and his plans, to be effective, must be immediate. Not an hour was to be lost —not a moment spent in vain lamenta tions, or fruitless repinings. Swiftly he moved to their consummation, and before another day dawned upon the stricken household, he, with a stout band, of pledged friends, was in rapid pur suit of the retreating footsteps of his supposed enemy. CHAPTER VII. “Gloom is upon tliy lonely hearth, O silent house! once filled with mirth; Sorrow is in the breezy sound Os thy tall poplars, whispering sound. The shadow of departed hours, Hangs dim upon thine early flowers; Even in thy sunshine, seems to brood, Something more deep, than solitude 1” “They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling,mourn.” Days and weeks had dragged on, and every thing that means and influence, and anxious, restless energy, could effect, had been done.— Forests had been tracked, through pathless, al most impenetrable wilds—woods around, and distant, had been scoured—streams had been dragged—deserted wigwams had been visited, —mountains and hills, with their almost inacces sible heights and ravines, had been explored— but all, all in vain. Alas! no trace ot tho loved little one could be discovered. When, saddened and desponding, Mr. More land returned, alter this fruitless search of weeks, for the lost darling of his home, he found his beloved wife prostrate in the raving delirium of brain fever—grief and anxiety had done the fearful work upon her distracted feelings and exhausted frame, and for many, many days, life and death battled for tho victory,—reason and lunacy wrestled for the mastery. All language were faint to portray the black shadows which now settled in terrible darkness over the desolate abode. The dry, sleepless, speechless agony of the father, was fearful to contemplate—its anguish was deep and unseen. The shaft was left broken in the wound, and the heart was bleeding inly— “ The grief which does not speak, Whispers the o'er wrought hcnrt,and bids it break." Slowly, at length, stole back the light of rea son to the eye of the bereft mother—languidly came returning strength to the broken frame— faintly resumed the hue of health its place on the pallid cheek. The overstrained mind and feelings recovered their balance—the tightened nerves relaxed their tension and convalescence crept slowly on the exhausted powers. Her feeble step moved once more among forgotten duties—but how wearily, how painfully 1 The spring of life was broken—the elasticity of ex pectation was gone. Her crushed heart lay bruised and mangled under the weight of her heavy sorrow. Weeks had done the work of years upon her appearance. Her dark glossy hair was now all streaked with gray—silver lines, drawn there by griefs unmistakable pale fingers, and her bent form drooped as some' slender tree from the shock of a terrible tempest. Life indeed was there, but hope itself was dead. Time, to that smitten household, dragged slowly on, with sure, unflagging, unstaying step; his tread knows no pausing, no retracing— whether he bears along in his onward march the happy and rejoicing, or the wretched and hope-forsaken pilgrim of this dreary wilderness of life. • There are some periods in our being long be fore the last and dreaded hour comes, when life, with its exquisite anguish, becomes a burden too intolerable to be borne. Overwhelmed by the crushing weight of her calamity, tho stricken heart of Mrs. Moreland never again rebounded into life and hope. The past had left her no memory but agony, the future stored for her nothing but despair. How often, now, in tho seclusion of her home, would the unfinished work glide from her listless fingers, and a shade of unutterable dejection darken the soft beauty of her gentle face. How often, when twilight summoned round her painful memories of the past, would her sad heart mourn her lost dar ling with acutest anguish. To her excited fancy, how would the soft eyes of her child look plead ingly into her own—the sweet melody of her voice, with bewitching cadence, vibrate upon her ear, and her light figure move before her in its childish grace. Oh! the sadness, the unspeakablo despon dence, of the lone hours, when her secret sor row, with nothing to interpose, wrung her heart with intensest agony! Where was now the lit tle form that had first nestled in her bosom, that had first awakened that deathless mother's love that was now gushing with such unuttera ble tenderness, and now, throbbing with intoler able anguish, over her uncertain fate? How gladly, how gratefully , would she have folded her little hands on her breast, and laid her gent ly to rest in a long, unbroken slumber! With what peaceful feelings, what tranquil resigna tion, would she have yielded her back to the bosom of Infinite Love! In vain Faith whispered her, that an Almighty eye was watching over her, an Almighty hand was guiding her wander ing footsteps with an unerring wisdom, and a limitless love. The sick heart had now no strength to believe, the fainting soul no power of trust. What to that smitten heart was now the pleasant sunshine, the unclouded heavens, the balmy breath of coming spring ? What, alas 1 was even the joyous laughter, the ringing mu sic of happy childhood's mirth, that again echoed through her saddened home ? Still the dejection was not morbidly fed and encouraged, but, true to her woman’s instinct of unselfishness, with a constant effort at self-con trol, she would endeavor to break the unvarying gloom of her clouded feelings—and as she gazed * with shattered heart, and the gathered brow of care, upon the little prattler at her knee, the old smile would sometimes light the eye of the mourning mother, and awaken the gentle play fulness of her lip. CHAPTER VIII. “Alas for them, their day Is o’er, Their fires are out from shore to shore ; No more for them the wild deer bounds, The plow is on their hunting grounds; The palo man's axe rings through the woods, The pale man’s sail skims o’er the floods; Their pleasant springs are dry ; Their children—look, by power oppress'd, Beyond the mountains of the W est— Their children go to die I” When the Indian, “Bald Eagle,” had, in his stride through the forest,swooped down upon his prey, it was with no premeditated malice, no preconcerted plan of revenge, although triumph flashed from his eye, and a gratified vindictive ness awoke into life the sleeping demon in his heart. He had returned from some days journey, leaving his wife and young son to await his re appearing, while he made a farewell visit to the homes and graves of his fathers. With his feelings excited, and his vindictive nature unduly exasperated, as he brooded over thedeath of his son, the consequent abandonment of his val uable possessions, and forced departure to seek a new home in the western wilderness, ho met the little girl, who, in her innocent and irrepres sible happiness, was caroling glad music out on j the summer air. The sight of the child awoke almost into fren ! zy the smothered rage of his bosom, and lift ■ ing her up in his arms, he stalked moodily on, ! dwelling upon his wrongs, and exulting in # the i retaliation so temptingly offered him. He con- I templated not murder, for he had dwelt too long in the vicinity of the “pale faces,” not to recog i nize the majesty of the law, and to fear the cer tain retribution that would follow so daring a deed—besides, his own nature revolted from so dastardly an act as the cold-blooded murder of an innocent child, and her dauntless disposition strongly impressed his rude character with an instinct of admiration. He strode on then with her young voice warb ling sweet notes in his ear, her soft arms clasp ing his neck, and her cheek resting in glowing beauty upon his swarthy breast. Her words died away in gentle cadence, as sleep, that falls so calmly upon the sinless brow of childhood, folded its wings over her young spirit, and the words “Take me home, now, take me home,” ! fell murmuringly from her lips. As she nestled there, with lowering brow and ► angry spirit he revolved various plans of ven- I geanee upon those whom ho deemed had so cruelly despoiled him, and he determined to re tain the child in his possession, retaliating thus upon her parents the sufferings that had wrung his own heart. He muttered as he stalked moodily on, “My nest has been robbed of its young eaglet, their bower shall be plucked of its fairest blossom." Approaching his temporary home, a rude shel ter in the depths of an almost inaccessible wood, he presented himself to his wife and son, bear ing on his breast the little wanderer, as calmly pillowed there as in her own soft couch, heed less of danger and unconscious of discou.'brt. When the morning sun streamed through the almost impenetrable interstices of the forest, and pierced the crevices of the rude wig warn, it fell with a shower of light upon the ! little bed, in a remote corner, composed of dried leaves, over which was thrown a coarse blanket, ! where rested the little captive in her iuuocence i and unconsciousness. The glare falling upon her face aroused the little sleeper, and she unclosed her eyes and gazed wonderingly around upon the unwonted roughness of her present resting place. For the first time a secret fear began to stir uneasily in her child’s-heart, but with a self control, which would have done no discredit to one of riper years, she refrained from any out ward expression, and lay quietly, and with earn est eye watched the movements of several fig ures who moved silently around. A tall form stood in the door-way, which she instantly recognized as that of her dusky bear er through the forest, in their many days tramp, and whose lowering eye and harsh aspect now filled her with an undefined fear and anxiety. Moving quietly around, apparently busied with preparation for some simple repast, was a female, whose dark robe was thrown around her in graceful folds, concealing her person, but dis playing her slender ankle and small foot, which, without shoe or sandal, fell noiselessly upon the i rough board floor of her cabin. Her complexion ! was a clear olive; her long silken hair—the ar ! rangement of which had evidently cost her no little trouble—was braided in a number of small strands, and cotifiued in a knot at the back of her head with a large silver pin; her only or naments, of the sinie metal, were suspended from her ears and clasped her bare arms. Her easy carriage was that of a true child of nature ignorant of forms, but whose native refinement softened into grace her untutored movements. Her clear dark eye, beaming with kindliness and simplicity, was in striking contrast to the haughty and defiant expression of her husband. She suspended her operations at the rude heart h stone, as the light figure of a young In dian boy bounded through the doorway and approached her side. After a few moments con sultation, they drew near to the corner where nestled in her rough couch the little wanderer. Their kind looks and gentle tones reassured the fluttering heart of the child. The Indian mother displayed none of the coldness so pecu liar to her race, towards the child of the white man, and her woman’s heart stretched out with involuntary tenderness towards the innocent and helpless girl. Days and weeks passed; and although uncon scious, to the full extent, of the wretched change in her young life, sho felt keenly its present ex treme of contrast and discomfort Her child’s heart pined for her home and parents, and she passed hours in low wails of sobbing or passion ate bursts of tears. Their effect told upon her health, and a slow nervous fever prostrated her for weeks. The kindly nature of the Indian mother, still suffering from her own recent loss,