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."