"You are the dearest children," exclaimed Aunt Florence. "I wish I could take you back to New York with me. You can't remember your grandfather and grandmother at all, can you, Billy?"

"No, wouldn't know 'em if I'd meet 'em."

"It's a shame. Never mind, I'll tell them all about you two and Gerald, and some day I'm coming north on purpose to take you all home with me, and we'll have the best kind of a time."

"Guess you wouldn't think of coming after us if we lived where we do now, and it was a hundred years ago," suggested Betty.

"Why not?"

"Oh, because you would have had to come from Detroit in a canoe, and this was all woods then, deep, deep woods full of Indians."

"Dear me, Betty, don't speak of it! It seems to me there are woods enough here now. My! What a dreary place! the undergrowth is so thick you can't see the water, and yet you can hear every wave. Betty Grannis, do you mean to tell me that you ever come out here to the old fort alone?"

"Oh, not very often; it is rather dreary, isn't it, auntie? You see, this is an old, old Indian trail, and that is why the pines meet overhead. Let's walk faster. I don't believe you'll want to stay long, auntie, after you get to the fort."

"I agree with you, Betty, this is a lonesome walk. I almost wish we'd stayed at home."

"Let's turn around and go back," suggested Billy.

"Oh, I must find some beads," Aunt Florence insisted. "Do you ever see Indians around here nowadays?"

"Oh, just tame ones," Billy was honest enough to say.

"You must be brave children," the young lady remarked, as she followed Betty through the gloomy forest.

"We're used to it," Betty sung over her shoulder, and Billy knew she was laughing. "Besides that, we can run like the wind if we have to. Then you know, auntie, the awful things that happened here happened over a hundred years ago, and there isn't any real danger now, of course. It just makes you feel shivery, that's all. Isn't it queer about Indian trails, how they wind in and out so often? This trail is exactly as it used to be. Did you ever read 'The Conspiracy of Pontiac,' auntie?"

"No, Betty, I never read it all; I simply know about the massacre here. Have you read it?"

"She knows it by heart," said Billy. "She can say bushels of Indian speeches. Tell her one, Betty. Tell her that one where the Indian said to Alexander Henry, 'The rattlesnake is our grandfather.'"

"Yes, do, Betty, only tell me first who Alexander Henry was."

"Why, auntie, don't you know? He was the English fur-trader whose life was saved by the Indian chief Wawatam. I like him best of any fur-trader I ever knew."

"Do tell me his story, Betty."

"Oh, I can't tell it, it is too long. Do you want to know what happened to him in the spring of 1761, two years before the massacre?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Well, of course, you know all about the French and Indian War, auntie?"

"Yes, I know something about it."

"Then, auntie, you know that the French liked the Indians, and the Indians liked them, but the English despised the Indians, and treated them so badly the Indians hated all Englishmen. That was why the Indians helped the French in their war. They wanted to drive the English out of the country. Well, when the war was over, the Indians didn't know that the English came out ahead, and that the French soldiers would have to march out of every fort and that the English soldiers would march in. Even my Pontiac didn't know it."

"He'd have known all about his own war and where he died if he'd had you for a sister," mocked Billy.

"Don't talk quite so loud, Billy dear," cautioned Aunt Florence.

"'Fraid?" questioned Billy.

"Oh, not exactly; go on, Betty, we're listening. How much longer is this Indian trail, anyway?"

"Only half a mile, auntie. Billy, you'll punch a hole through your pocket if you aren't careful."

"Go on with your story, Bet, and don't turn around so much."

"Well," continued Betty, giving Billy a look that meant "Don't you dare lose those beads," "well, auntie, in the spring of that year, 1761, the French soldiers had left this fort, and only Canadian families were living in it. The English soldiers hadn't come yet, but they were on the way. The fort was over a hundred years old then. Only think of it!

"Alexander Henry, my Englishman, wasn't afraid of anything, that's why I like him. He came up here with canoes full of beads and things to trade with the Indians for furs. On the way he was warned again and again to go back if he didn't want to be killed. He probably would have been killed long before he got here if he hadn't put on the clothes of a Canadian voyageur."

"They're the ones," interrupted Billy, "that used to paddle the canoes and sing 'Row, brothers, row,' and—"

"She knows that," sniffed Betty; "even our baby knows that much. Well, auntie, when Alexander Henry got here, the Canadians were bad to him and tried to scare him. They wanted him to go away before anything happened. He hadn't been here but a short time when Minnavavana, a Chippewa Indian chief, came with sixty warriors to call on him. They marched to his house single file, auntie. Their faces were painted with grease and charcoal, and they had feathers through their noses and feathers in their hair. Their bodies were painted with white clay. That isn't the worst of it. Every warrior carried a tomahawk in one hand and a scalping-knife in the other. I suppose they came along this very trail.

"Alexander Henry says they walked into the house without a sound. The chief made a sign and they all sat on the floor. Minnavavana asked one of the interpreters how long it was since Mr. Henry left Montreal, and then he said it seemed that the English were brave men and not afraid to die, or they wouldn't come as he had, alone, among their enemies. Then all the Indians smoked their pipes, and let Alexander Henry think about things while it was nice and quiet. Just think of it, auntie!

"When the Indians were through smoking, Minnavavana made a speech. I don't know it by heart, but it was something like this:

"'Englishman, it is to you that I speak. Englishman, you know that the French king promised to be our father. We promised to be his children. We have kept this promise. Englishman, it is you that have made war with our father. You are his enemy. How could you have the boldness to venture among us, his children? You know his enemies are ours.

"'Englishman, our father, the King of France, is old and infirm. Being tired of war, he has fallen asleep. But his nap is almost at an end. I think I hear him stirring and asking for his children, the Indians, and, when he does awake, what must become of you? He will destroy you utterly.'"

Betty, becoming much in earnest, was walking backward.

"'Englishman, we have no father, no friend among the white men but the King of France,'" the child went on. "'But for you, we have taken into consideration that you have ventured your life among us in the expectation that we should not molest you. You do not come to make war; you come in peace to trade with us. We shall regard you, therefore, as a brother, and you may sleep tranquilly, without fear of the Chippewas. As a token of friendship, we present you this pipe to smoke.'"

Whereupon, Betty, making a serious bow, offered her little shovel to Aunt Florence. For the moment, she actually believed herself Minnavavana, the Indian chief, though Billy's face quickly brought her back to the present.

"I am thankful to say," resumed Betty, joining in the laugh following the presentation of the shovel, "that after three hundred warriors of another tribe came and were going to make trouble, the English soldiers arrived, and the red flag of England soon floated above the fort. Then, for two years, nothing much happened, but I'm glad I wasn't here then. I wouldn't have slept a wink, I know."

"Neither should I, Betty," Aunt Florence agreed.

"Frenchy'd have been all right, though," remarked Billy. "There's the fort, Aunt Florence, straight ahead; the trail ends here. Now we will find an old cellar-hole and hunt for beads. Let me go first, Betty."

"The fort," repeated Aunt Florence, "where is it?" She saw nothing but a wilderness of wild-rose blooms.

"Oh," laughed Betty, "there's nothing left of the fort but part of the old palisades. Most of the buildings were burned the day of the massacre."

"It's unspeakably dreary, in spite of the sunshine and the roses," commented Aunt Florence, "but I do want some beads."

"Come on, come on," cried Billy. "Oh, hurry up, Aunt Florence, I'm finding beads by the bushel."

"Where is the child? can you see him, Betty?"

"'Way over there, auntie, in that cellar-hole near the old apple-tree. We think that is where one of the storehouses used to be, because all around it is where most of the beads have been found."

For awhile Aunt Florence forgot the surrounding woods, in her eager search for beads. Had she known Betty and Billy as their mother knew them, she might have understood that there was more of mischief than pure joy in their smiles.

"Never found so many beads in one place in my life," declared Billy.

"Nor anybody else in the last hundred years," added Betty. "Fun, isn't it?"

"Fun!" echoed Aunt Florence, "why, children, I won't want to go home until dark."

Betty stared, and Billy made faces. This was an unexpected blow. At last the beads that Betty had collected, after working hours and hours through many a day, were all found.

"Now we'll look for another place," announced Aunt Florence.

"I guess we are alone out here," suggested Betty, glancing about, as though she felt uneasy.

"Oh, no," was the cheerful reply, "down there nearer the lake I saw two sunbonnets not three minutes ago. We're all right, children; I'm not the least bit timid."

Patiently Aunt Florence continued her search for beads, encouraged by the hope of finding another place equal to the first.

"It seems strange that there should have been so many beads in one spot of earth, and so few everywhere else," she said, "but I'm not going to give up now, after such luck in the beginning."

"You'll just have to scare her to death, I guess," grumbled Billy. "Lost your beads for nothing, too."

"Trouble is," confessed Betty, moving nearer Billy and farther from her aunt, "this isn't a good place to tell Indian stories."

"Why not?"

"Because, Billy, I get scared myself. Honest and truth, I don't even like to think of such horrible things right here where they happened."

"Don't make any difference, you've got to," protested Billy. "Don't you know she said she'd stay here till dark?"

"I know it, Billy; let me see, how'll I begin. Oh, I know, Alexander Henry was in his room in the fort writing letters home. Perhaps, Billy, we are standing on the very place where his house was. He was so busy with his letters he didn't want to take the time to go down to the beach to see the canoes that had just arrived from Detroit. First thing he knew, he heard the war-whoops. Mercy, Billy! Don't scream like that again!"

"Billy Grannis," called Aunt Florence, "what's the matter?"

"Why, that was just an Indian war-whoop, auntie. Frenchy and I have been practising whoops lately."

"Well, please don't practise any more now; you made me jump so I lost three beads. I don't believe an Indian could give a worse yell."

"Oh, yes, he could," exclaimed Betty, "my, that's nothing!" and, seeing her opportunity, she began telling stories. Even Billy grew solemn in his very mind as he listened, and it wasn't long before Betty succeeded in scaring herself, however Aunt Florence may have felt.

Suddenly the air was filled with shrieks. Aunt Florence became white as the daisies, as she stared at Betty, while terror seized Billy.

"It's the sunbonnet girls," gasped Betty; "what do you s'pose is the matter? What is the matter?" she demanded of the flying maidens.

"Indians, Indians, run quick, run, run! I tell you they're after us!"

One glance toward the lake was enough for Betty. She saw canoes being drawn up on the beach, and Indians coming straight toward them. The child was never more frightened in her life. Forgetting Billy, she and Aunt Florence fairly flew over the rough ground. Billy, poor fellow! never could run because he was too plump. He hadn't gone ten breathless steps before he fell into a cellar-hole, and, before he could scramble out, a big Indian overtook him.

"Match," grunted the Indian, "want match."

"N-n-no, I don't want any matches," answered Billy, trying to steady his trembling knees.

"Humph! Indian want match. Give Indian match. Indian build fire," was the explanation.

Billy shook his head, and the Indian turned away disappointed.

"That Betty'd leave you to be eaten up by Indians," grumbled Billy, and, because he was so angry and because he had been so badly frightened over nothing, he began to cry.

"Billy, Billy, don't cry, I came back after you, you poor child." It was the voice of Aunt Florence, though Billy couldn't see her.

"Here I am, behind this clump of goose-berry bushes, Billy. I didn't dare come straight back, so I kept behind trees and bushes. Come quick; now let's run."

"There isn't anything to run for, Aunt Florence," sobbed Billy. "Don't you see, they're just tame Indians, and wouldn't hurt anybody? Don't you see the little Indian children and the squaws, too? I s'pose they've come with baskets to sell. Yes, there comes a squaw, going to town now with a load of baskets."

"Then I guess I'll sit down and rest a minute," said Aunt Florence, "for I'm tired out. It's dreadful to be so frightened. I'm trembling yet."

"Me, too," confessed Billy. "Where's that Betty?"

"Home by this time, I presume," was the laughing reply, "unless she couldn't stop running when she got there, in which case she's probably in the lake. Well, Billy, let's walk on now, or the whole missionary society will be coming to our rescue."

"Oh, Billy, I've been crying my eyes out, fear something had happened to you," was Betty's greeting when she saw her little brother.

Billy made a face, as he replied in scornful tones: "'Fore I'd run away from tame Indians!" For many a day thereafter, if Billy wanted anything that belonged to Betty, it was his if he but threatened to say "Tame Indians."