THE SCENE IS SHIFTED TO THE BANKS OF THE MUSKINGUM, AND PRAIRIE–BIRD RETURNS TO THE HOME OF HER CHILDHOOD.

About two months after the events related in the preceding chapters, there was an unusual stir and bustle in the town of Marietta, and half a score of its principal inhabitants were assembled in front of David Muir’s house, to witness the landing of the crew and passengers belonging to a large boat that had just arrived at the wooden pier which projected into the river.

Foremost of a busy group at the water’s edge was the sturdy form of Gregson the mate, whose orders respecting the bringing–to, and making fast, were implicitly obeyed; and when at length she was securely moored alongside the pier, numerous and hearty were the greetings between those who stepped ashore from her, and the friends from whom they had been so long severed.

“Bearskin, how are you? my old fresh–water porpoise!” said the mate, squeezing the hard hand of the Mississippi boatman. “How fares it, messmate?”

“All right now, my hearty; but we’ve had some foul weather since I saw you last.”

“Ay, I see!” said the mate, observing the scars upon his old companion’s face and forehead; “you’ve been snagged, and damaged your figure–head a bit: never mind that; we’ll have all that yarn out by and bye over a bottle of David’s best. See, here he comes to welcome you himself!”

Leaving David Muir and Bearskin to their mutual greetings, the mate returned to the water–side and lent his powerful assistance to the landing of the cargo of the heavily–laden boat; and certainly, a more strange or heterogeneous mixture of animate and inanimate stock never came out of any vessel since the disembarkation from the ark. Skins, furs, bows, rifles, moccassins, and Indian curiosities of every description, were piled near the bows, while in the after–part were stowed provisions of all kinds, and kegs, which were by no means so full as they were when the boat left St. Louis.

The appearance, language, and costume of the crew would baffle any attempt at description, inasmuch as each sunburnt, unshaved individual composing it, had equipped and attired himself according to his own fancy, and according to the contents of his remaining wardrobe after a long sojourn in the western wilderness: and when it is remembered that these hardy fellows were from all the varied clans and nations found between the sources and the mouth of the “Father of Waters,” it is not surprising that their mingled jargon should have struck upon the ear like the dialects of Babel in the day of its confusion. There were half–bred Creeks and Cherokees; Canadians, some with no little admixture of Chippeway blood; others, proud of their pure French descent: there were also some of the rough boatmen, who had already migrated to the banks of the Great River, where it washes the western boundaries of what are now the States of Kentucky and Illinois; and a raw–boned sinewy fellow, who acted as a sort of second mate, was giving instructions in broad Scotch, to a dark–eyed and diminutive individual, who replied to him in bad Spanish. Above the din of all these multifarious tongues, was heard the shrill and incessant voice of Monsieur Perrot, who was labouring with indefatigable zeal to collect his master’s baggage, and to put it safely ashore.

This he was at length enabled to effect with the aid of David Muir and the mate; after which the articles destined for Mooshanne were piled in readiness for the waggon which was to convey them, and the remainder found their way by degrees to their respective destinations.

When at last the good–humoured valet found himself comfortably seated in the merchant’s parlour with the worthy man himself, Dame Christie, Jessie, and the mate, for his audience, and a bottle of madeira, with some fried ham and fresh eggs upon the table, he gave a sigh, the importance of which was lost upon none of those present, and he looked from one to the other with the conscious superiority of a man who knows how much he has to tell.

It is not our province to follow him through the “hair–breadth ‘scapes,” the “moving accidents by flood and field,” with which he set his astonished hearers “all agape;” the only portion of his narrative which it concerns us to know, is that which referred to the movements of Reginald Brandon and the remainder of his party, who might, according to Monsieur Perrot’s account, be almost daily expected at Mooshanne, as they had left St. Louis and crossed its ferry with tent, baggage, and a large cavalcade, on the day of his embarkation in the great “Batteau.”

It was so long since Monsieur Perrot had tasted any liquid with a flavour like that of the merchant’s madeira, that he sipped and talked, talked and sipped, without noting the lapse of time, and the evening was already far advanced before he thought of rising to take his departure for Mooshanne; even then, David Muir pressed him so strongly to remain with him over–night, and continue his journey on the following morning, that Monsieur Perrot found himself quite unable to resist accepting the invitation; especially as he thought that another day or two might probably elapse before the return of Reginald; and, moreover, the bright eyes of Jessie Muir looked a thousand times brighter from the contrast that her beauty afforded to the swart dusky complexions by which he had so lately been surrounded.

Leaving the merry Frenchman, and his still wondering auditors in David’s parlour, we will proceed without delay to Mooshanne, where it happened that, about four o’clock on the same afternoon, a single horseman sprang from the animal that, to judge from its appearance, had carried him far and fast, and, having rung the door–bell, waited not for any one to answer it, but walked straight into the vestibule.

The bell was still ringing when the door of the drawing–room was slightly opened that the blue eyes of Lucy might herself reconnoitre the new comer; the next moment saw her in her brother’s arms.

“Dear, dear Reginald! ’tis he, ’tis he, indeed!” and she drew him into the room that her father might share her rapturous joy.

While the colonel pressed his son to his heart in a fond paternal embrace, Lucy ran up stairs to prepare the more delicate nerves of her invalid mother for the shock of happiness that awaited her.

Scarcely were these first affectionate greetings exchanged, ere Lucy inquired with expectant eagerness, “When will they arrive?—how far off are they, Reginald?”

“They cannot now be long; I think within a couple of hours they must be here. If I mistake not, Lucy, there is one of the party who begrudged me not a little my office of avant–courier.”

Lucy blushed “celestial rosy red, love’s proper hue,” as she felt how her heart leaped within her to meet the one to whom her brother referred; and she hastened away to conceal her mingled confusion and happiness, in the thousand little details of preparation for her expected guests.

It may be as well here to mention, that immediately on reaching St. Louis, Reginald had dispatched a messenger on horseback to his father with a letter, containing the outline of the events connected with his western expedition, and informing him of the rescue of Prairie–bird, and of the attachment that existed between her and himself. He spoke not of her parentage, further than to say, that she had been carried off in childhood from her own family, who were of a lineage and descent altogether unexceptionable; and he entreated and conjured his father not to entertain, nor pronounce any objection to his proposed alliance, until he had an opportunity of seeing, hearing, and judging for himself.

Reginald had also insisted upon Ethelston’s abstaining from this topic in any letter that he might wish to send from St. Louis, and the colonel had thought it advisable to say nothing to Lucy of her brother’s attachment, while there remained a doubt of its being such as he could approve or sanction; so that he had only informed her that the party would bring back with them Prairie–bird, whom the young Delaware had mentioned so often as his sister, but who was, in fact, the daughter of English parents, of the highest respectability; and that she would be accompanied by Paul MÜller, a missionary, whose reputation for piety and learning was extensively spread, and who had been, since her residence with the Indians, her instructor and adopted father.

Lucy’s curiosity to see Prairie–bird had been, since the arrival of her brother’s letter, extraordinarily excited. Sometimes she fancied her a half–wild, half–civilized being, clad in a dress of skins, and speaking broken English. Then again she was puzzled at the remembrance of the affectionate reverence, almost amounting to worship, with which Wingenund had spoken of her, and again her calculation was at fault. Under these doubts and perplexities, she consulted Aunt Mary, and with her aid and concurrence had prepared for her expected guest a room upon the ground–floor, that looked upon her own flower–garden. Its furniture was simple, but exceedingly pretty, being a kind of representation of a tent, of an octagon shape, and hung with a delicate–coloured pink chintz.

The view from the windows was lovely; for although the flowery parterres had lost their brightest summer hues, a few roses still lingered among them, contrasting with the thousand autumnal colours that decked the shady mass of distant forests between which and the flower–garden was seen here and there, through a leafy vista, the winding course of the Muskingum. Lucy had decked the interior of the room with all those nameless comforts and luxuries that betoken women’s affectionate care; several shelves were covered with well–selected books, and two china baskets upon the table were filled with such flowers as the indefatigable Aunt Mary had placed there, unconscious for whom she gathered them.

As soon as Reginald had enjoyed a short interview with his mother, whose health, though still delicate, had somewhat improved since he had last seen her, Lucy entered, and taking him by the arm, said, “Come, Reginald, you must inspect my preparations. See, this is your own room, which you will find rather more gay than when you left it, as Aunt Mary would have it new–papered. That beyond is destined, as before, for Ed—for Ethelston.”

“Has Aunt Mary thought it requisite to new–paper that too, or did it occur to Miss Lucy without her aunt’s suggestion?”

Lucy punished him with a slight pinch on the arm; and then leading him down the stairs to the tent apartment, said to him, “Now, Sir, I will show you what I have prepared for your Indian lady; this is Prairie–bird’s room.”

The tell–tale blood rushed into Reginald’s bronzed and sunburnt cheek, as he stood within the room destined to contain his heart’s treasure; thoughts, far too sweet, and deep, and swift for words, mingled the past and the future in a delicious dream, as bending over his sister he kissed her fair forehead, and pressed her in silence to his heart.

With the intuitive quickness of sympathy, Lucy read in that expressive silence the secret of her brother’s breast; and looking up to him, half–reproachfully, she said, “Reginald, could not you have trusted your Lucy so far, as to tell her that Prairie–bird would have a dearer title to her affections than that of being Wingenund’s sister, or the child of the missionary’s adoption?”

“Dear Lucy,” replied her brother, with an impressive earnestness, that re–assured while it awed her, “there has been so much of the mysterious and merciful working of Providence in the history of Prairie–bird, that I am sure you will forgive me when I ask you to wait a few hours before all is explained to you. Meanwhile, receive her, for these few hours, as a guest; if at the end of them you do not love her as a sister, my prophetic spirit errs widely of its mark.”

Lucy saw well how deeply her brother’s feelings were moved, and she prayed inwardly that her expected guest might fulfil his prophecy. It must be owned, however, that there lurked a doubt in her heart whether it could be possible that a girl, reared in an Indian camp, could be to her a sister, or could be worthy of that brother, whom her fond partiality clothed with attributes beyond those which belong to ordinary mortals. Her affection for Reginald would not permit her to let him perceive these doubts; but fearful of betraying them by her manner, she left him in the room destined for Prairie–bird, while she hastened to aid the indefatigable Aunt Mary in some of the other preparations that were going forward; the colonel having given orders that the whole party, of whatever rank or station, should be hospitably entertained.

Reginald was no sooner left alone, than casting his eyes around the room, a sudden idea occurred to him of preparing an agreeable surprise for his betrothed on her entrance to her new domicile. He remembered having seen below, in the drawing–room, a Spanish guitar, which he lost no time in securing; and having taken it from the case, he ascertained that it was a very fine instrument, and that the strings were in very tolerable order. He now laid it upon the sofa–table in her room, placing beside it a slip of paper which he took from his pocket, and which seemed from its soiled and crumpled condition, to have suffered not a little from the various wettings to which, during the past months of travel, it had been exposed. Still he lingered in the room, noting with satisfaction the various trifling luxuries and comforts which his sister had prepared for Prairie–bird, when suddenly he caught the sound of a bugle–note, in which he instantly recognised the signal to be given by Baptiste of the party’s approach.

How did his heart beat within him as he flew to welcome them! yet were its throbbing pulsations like the quiet of sleep compared to those of the maiden, who now drew near the home of her infancy. Ethelston had leaped to the ground, and half supported her in the saddle with one hand, while with the other he checked Nekimi, whose impatient neigh betrayed his remembrance of the corn–bin, and the well–known stall.

“Edward—Edward, I cannot go through this!” said the half–fainting girl. “My thoughts are all confused—my brain turns round—see there is the house! I cannot remember it. O, stay a minute—only one minute, that I may recover myself!”

“Dear Evy!” said her brother, looking up while she leaned affectionately upon his shoulder, “’tis natural that your thoughts should be mingled and confused, but let them not be gloomy now! The house is so changed within the last ten years, that had you built it yourself you could not recognise it in its present state. Already I can distinguish dear Aunt Mary’s white cap and apron; and Lucy, longing to embrace a sister; the gray locks of the stately colonel, and one beside him, who will not be the last to welcome Prairie–bird!”

“I can distinguish nothing, Edward; there is a mist before my eyes: but it is a mist of love and happiness unspeakable!”

“Courage, dear Evy!” said her brother in a cheering tone, “let them not think that Prairie–bird draws near with slow, unwilling step, and that her heart regrets the change from the prairie to the scenes of her childhood, and the home of her choice!”

“Edward!” said his sister reproachfully, while a tear started in her eye, and the blood mounted to her temples; then, shaking back the dark locks from her glowing cheeks, as if she would thereby shake off the temporary weakness by which she had been overcome, she added, “Remount your horse; we have yet some hundred feet to go; if Prairie–bird draws near with slow, unwilling step, it shall be Nekimi’s fault, and not her own!”

So saying, she shook the loosened rein upon the neck of the fiery steed, which, bounding forward with a spring that would have unseated a less practised rider, bore her swiftly to the door, where he stopped, obedient to her delicate hand, and champed, and frothed, and snorted, as if proud alike of his burden, and of his own matchless symmetry of form.

Never had her radiant beauty so thrilled through Reginald’s every nerve as at this moment, when, lightly touching his proferred arm, she sprang to the ground; her cheek glowing with agitation, and her eye moistened by contending emotions, she interchanged with him one silent look of conscious love, and then turned, with gentle grace, to receive the greeting of Colonel Brandon.

We have before said that he had been far from pleased with the contemplated alliance of his son, and had made up his mind to receive Prairie–bird with cold and studied courtesy, nor to treat her otherwise than as an ordinary guest, until he should have satisfied himself respecting her birth and connexions; but, in spite of himself, these resolutions vanished before the irresistible attractions of her manner and bearing, so that, instead of only extending his hand, as he had proposed, he imprinted a parental kiss upon her forehead, saying,

“Welcome, heartily and truly welcome to Mooshanne!”

She tried to speak, but she looked on the half–remembered features of Reginald’s father, and her collected strength began to fail. At this moment she was greeted by Lucy, whom she already knew to be the chosen of her brother’s heart.

“Prairie–bird must learn to love her sister!” whispered she, folding her in an affectionate embrace.

“Learn, Lucy!” replied Prairie–bird, whose tears could no longer be controlled; “Learn! can a few years have so changed our faces and our hearts, that Lucy and Evy must now learn to love each other?”

Before the astonished girl could reply, Aunt Mary, darting forward with frantic haste, exclaimed, “What voice is that?” then catching Prairie–bird by the arm, examined with wild intensity every line of her countenance. As she looked, the tears gathered in her own eyes, her frame trembled with agitation, and she fell upon her neck, saying, “’Tis she—’tis my poor brother’s long–lost child!”

Lucy’s heart told her that it was so indeed: Colonel Brandon was overcome with astonishment; but he read in the looks of Reginald and Ethelston that the lost treasure was restored; and as memory retraced in the features of Prairie–bird those of his attached and lamented friend, he too was unmanned; and grasping Ethelston’s hand, wrung it with an emotion beyond the power of words.

The news spread like wildfire throughout the house, that Captain Ethelston’s sister was returned; and Lucy was obliged to run with all speed to her mother’s room to prevent a sudden shock of joy that might affect her weakly nerves. Is it possible to describe or imagine the transports of the succeeding hour in that happy circle! or the caresses showered upon Prairie–bird! What word would the pen or tongue employ? “Congratulations?” As well might one attempt to represent Niagara by the water poured from a pitcher!

We will trust that hour to the reader’s heart, and will suppose it past, and that Lucy, with still tearful eyes, and her arm still round her recovered sister’s neck, was leading her from the room where she had just knelt, to receive Mrs. Brandon’s maternal kiss, when in passing a half–open door, Lucy said, “Evy, that is your brother’s room; but he is not in it, he is still on the lawn.”

“Oh! I must look into Edward’s room,” exclaimed Prairie–bird; and opening the door, she entered, followed by Lucy. A rifle, a fowling–piece, and a fishing–rod stood in one corner; over them were ranged several pairs of pistols, and two or three cutlasses, apparently of foreign workmanship; in the opposite corner, near the window, was a globe, by the side of which stood a case filled with naval charts; on the other side of the room was ranged a row of shelves well stored with books, and the writing–table in the centre was covered with papers, all neatly tied and docketed, as he had left them at his last departure.

Prairie–bird’s eye wandered with a certain degree of interest over all these indications of her brother’s habits, until it rested upon a small portrait, hung over the chimney–piece. It represented a man of middle age and stature, and although the painting was scarcely above mediocrity as a work of art, the expression of the countenance was strikingly open and benevolent. Prairie–bird gazed upon it, until she thought that the mild orbs upon the inanimate canvass returned her affectionate gaze. With clasped hands and beating heart, she stood awhile silent, and then sinking on her knees, without removing her eyes from the object upon which they rested, she murmured, in a whisper scarcely audible, “My father!”

It was indeed the portrait of his lamented friend, that Colonel Brandon had kindly placed in Ethelston’s room, a circumstance which had escaped Lucy’s memory at the moment of her entering it.

Stooping over her kneeling companion, she kissed her forehead, saying, “Evy, I will leave you for a few minutes to commune with the memory of the honoured dead; you will find me in the vestibule below.” So saying, she gently closed the door, and left the room.

In less than a quarter of an hour Prairie–bird rejoined her friend; and though the traces of recent emotion were still to be observed, she had recovered her composure, and her countenance wore an expression of grateful happiness.

“Come, Evy,” said her young hostess, “I must now show you your own room; the cage is not half pretty enough for so sweet a bird, but it opens upon the flower–garden; so you can escape when you will, and your dear good Paul MÜller is your next neighbour.”

An exclamation of delight broke from the lips of Prairie–bird as she entered and looked around the tented apartment, and all its little comforts, prepared by Lucy’s taste and affection. Fortunately, the day was beautiful, and the casement–windows being wide open, her eye caught, beyond the flower–garden, a view of the distant mass of forest, with its thousand varied autumnal tints, reposing in the golden light of the declining sun.

“Oh, it is too, too beautiful!” said Prairie–bird, throwing her arms around Lucy’s neck; “I can scarcely believe that this is not all a dream!”

“There have indeed been some fairies here, or some such beings as dwell in dreams, Evy,” said Lucy, whose eyes fell upon the guitar lying on the table; “for I left this room a short time ago, and this instrument was not here then. Who can have brought it?—can you play upon it, Evy?”

“A little,” replied Prairie–bird, colouring.

“And see,” continued Lucy, “here is a scrap of paper beside it, so soiled and dirty that I should have put it in the fire had I seen it before; do you know the hand–writing, Evy?” As Lucy said this, she looked archly up in her friend’s face, now glowing with a rosy blush. “Well, you need not answer, for methinks I know it myself; may I unfold the paper, and read its contents? What, no answer yet? then I must take your silence for consent.” Thus saying, she opened the paper, while Prairie–bird, blushing still more deeply, glanced at it with longing, but half–averted eyes. “Verses, I declare!” exclaimed Lucy. “Why, Evy, what magic art have you employed to transform my Nimrod brother, the wild huntsman of the west, the tamer of horses, and the slayer of deer, into a poet?”

She then proceeded to read, in a voice of deep feeling, the following stanzas, which, although without any pretensions to poetical merit in themselves, found such acceptance with their present warm–hearted and partial judges, that, at the conclusion of their perusal, the two girls fell upon each other’s neck, and remained locked in a silent and affectionate embrace.

On overhearing Prairie–bird’s Evening Hymn, “Hallowed be
Thy Name.”[92]

“Yes, hallowed be His Holy Name
Who formed thee what thou art!

Whose breath inspired the heav’nly flame
Now kindled in thy heart!

Whose love o’erflowing in thy breast
These vocal raptures stirred—

Whose angels hover round thy nest,
Thou orphan Prairie–bird!

“Methinks, I see that guardian throng
Still mirrored in thy face!

Thy voice hath stol’n their angel–song,
Thy form their angel–grace.

Oh breathe once more that plaintive strain,
Whose every tone and word,

Deep–treasured in my heart and brain
Shall dwell, sweet Prairie–bird!”

Delaware and Osage Camp,
Tuesday Night.—R. B.

On the following day, the family party at Mooshanne were assembled at luncheon under a large tree on the banks of the Muskingum, from beneath the shade of which the gables and irregular chimneys of the house were seen through occasional openings in Lucy’s shrubbery; while the deep river flowed silently onward, bearing away in its tranquil course the leafy tribute of autumn showered upon it by the light breath of the western wind.

Already had Prairie–bird visited the spot where her father’s house had stood, the site of which was only to be recognised by a few heaps of stones and blackened timbers, over which the luxuriant mosses and lichens with which that region abounds had long since cast their mantle of green, while a few apple, plum, and peach trees, unprotected by hedge or fence still showed “where once the garden smiled.”

Colonel Brandon had not thought it advisable to rebuild either the house or the offices after their destruction by the savages, but had contented himself with a careful administration of his late friend’s property, leaving it to his son Edward to choose a site for his residence at a later period. Neither must it be supposed that our heroine had omitted to pay a morning visit to Nekimi, who now knew her voice and obeyed her call like an affectionate and faithful dog. As soon as she came to the stable, into which he had been turned without halter or fastening of any kind, the generous animal, after saluting her with a neigh of recognition, rubbed his broad forehead against her shoulder, and playfully nibbled the grains off the head of maize which she held out to him; but even that he did not venture to do until he had acquired a claim to it by holding one of his feet up and pawing with it until she let it rest in her delicate hand. It must assuredly have been by mere accident that Reginald entered while she was thus employed, and reminded her how he had, with prescient hope, foretold this very scene amongst the rocky cliffs of the far distant Andes. Well did Prairie–bird remember the spot, and every syllable of that prophecy; neither did she affect to have forgotten it, but with a sweet blush held out one hand to her lover, while the other still played with the silken tresses of Nekimi’s mane.

What a delightful occupation is it to caress a dumb favourite by the side of one beloved, when the words of endearing tenderness lavished on the unconscious pet are the outpourings of a heart sensitively shrinking from addressing them directly to their real object! And if it be true, that many a sleek and glossy spaniel has thus received the caress intended for its owner, how much more natural was it that Reginald and Prairie–bird should find pleasure in bestowing their caresses on a noble animal, endeared to them by so many associations; for while she remembered how often Nekimi had borne him in the chase and in the fight, he was not likely to forget with how true and unwearied a step the faithful steed had carried his betrothed over many hundred miles of mountain and of prairie; and even now, as her hand rested in his, both by a conscious sympathy thought of Nekimi’s former generous lord, and breathed a sigh over War–Eagle’s untimely fate.

To return to our party assembled round the luncheon–table under the venerable tree. The first tumult of joy had subsided, and was succeeded by a feeling of more assured happiness—“a sober certainty of waking bliss,” which pervaded every breast. Aunt Mary contemplated her lovely niece with looks of the fondest affection, recalling in her sweet smile and in the expression of her features the beloved brother, whose loss she had with deep but chastened grief for many years deplored; for a few minutes there was a general silence; one of those pauses in which each member of the party pondered, as if by a common sympathy, on the wonderful events which had led to their reunion. Lucy was the first to break it.

“Reginald,” said she, “you related to us yester–evening the commencement of your homeward journey, and how the Delaware called ‘Stony–heart’ was permitted by the Osages to return unhurt to your camp: you must resume the thread of your tale where you left it, and tell us especially how and where you parted from dear Wingenund, to whom we all owe a debt of gratitude greater than we can ever pay.”

“That do we indeed, Lucy,” replied her brother, earnestly; “fortunate, too, is, it that deeds of generous self–devotion like those done by Wingenund reward themselves, and that a debt of gratitude to one whom we love is a treasure, not a load upon the breast. You remember how a writer, who used to be a favourite with you, has expressed it:

‘A grateful mind

By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged.’”

“What a beautiful thought!” exclaimed Prairie–bird, eagerly; “tell me the book wherein I may find it written. Such a lovely flower as that cannot surely grow alone; there must be others of similar beauty near it.”

“There are, indeed; fresh, fragrant, and abundant, as on a western prairie in June; ‘Paradise Lost’ is the garden wherein they grow; many of the descriptions contained in it are among the most beautiful in our language; I hope ere long to read them to and with you, dearest,” he added in a whisper, intended for her ear alone: “there are some lines descriptive of Eve as she first appeared to Adam, which always seemed to me exaggerated, until you taught my eye to see and my heart to feel their truth.”

With a deep blush Prairie–bird cast her dark eyes upon the ground, while Reginald continued aloud, again addressing himself to Lucy.

“Our own adventures after we crossed the Platte river are scarcely worth relating; for although we had a few alarms from wandering parties of Pawnees, Omahaws, and Dahcotahs, our band was too strong and too well armed to fear anything from their open attack; and the ever–watchful care and sagacity of Wingenund left them no chance of surprising us.

“The warlike spirit and experience of his noble brother seemed to have descended, like Elijah’s mantle, upon the youth; and feeling the responsibility that attached to him as leader of the party, he allowed himself little rest either by day or by night, setting the watches himself, and visiting them repeatedly at intervals to ascertain that they were on the alert. He always came to our camp–fire in the evening, and I observed that he daily became more interested in the conversation of our worthy friend the missionary, and more anxious to understand the principles and truths of Christianity; in so doing he was not only following the bent of his own amiable and gentle disposition, but he felt a secret pleasure in the remembrance that he was fulfilling the last wishes of his dying brother. I dare say Paul MÜller would now tell you that he would be thankful indeed if the average of professing Christians understood and practised the precepts of their creed as faithfully as Wingenund.”

“That would I in truth, my son,” replied the missionary; “nevertheless I cannot claim the honour of having been the instrument of the conversion of the Delaware youth or his brother; it was effected, under the blessing of Heaven, by the patient, zealous, and affectionate exertion of Prairie–bird.”

“Nay, my dear father, you do yourself grievous wrong in so speaking,” said Prairie–bird, reproachfully; “and even were it as you say, to whom do I owe every thing that I know? whom have I to thank that I was not left in the dark and hapless condition of the females by whom I have so long been surrounded?”

The tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke, and she pressed affectionately to her lips the hand which her adopted father extended to her.

“Yes, my sister speaks only the truth,” said Ethelston, addressing the missionary in a voice of deep emotion; “we all feel how far beyond the power of words we are indebted to you for all that you have done for her, and we only trust that some opportunity may be afforded us of showing a deep, sincere, and permanent gratitude that we are unable to express.”

Colonel Brandon, and every one of the family circle rose, as by a common impulse, and one by one confirmed by a silent pressure of the hand, the sentiment expressed by Ethelston. The venerable man, uncovering his head, and allowing the breeze to waive to and fro his silver locks, looked for a minute upon the kindred group before him, and thus addressed them:—

“Think you not, my friends, that this scene, these happy faces, and this happy home, might well reward any degree or duration of earthly toil? But toil there has been none, for the teaching and nurture of this sweet child has been from the first a labour of love; and the only pain or regret that she has ever caused me, is that which I now feel, when I recollect, that I must resign her into the hands of her natural guardians, and return to my appointed task, the occasional troubles of which will not any more be sweetened by her presence, nor its vexations be soothed by her affection. Such, however, is the will of Him whom I serve, and far be it from me to repine.”

“Nay,” interrupted Reginald, eagerly, “you will not leave us yet. After the fatigues and trials of this summer, you will surely give yourself some repose.”

“My son, I would gladly dwell awhile in this pleasant and happy abode; but I must not leave Wingenund to contend unaided against the difficulties by which his present path will be beset, the doubts and temptations which may assail him from within, and the sneers or scorn he may experience from the more proud and violent spirits of his tribe.”

“There is, however, one service that you have promised to render before you take your departure from Mooshanne. Perhaps there are others here beside myself who will urge you to its faithful performance.”

This bold speech threw the whole party into momentary confusion. Prairie–bird, pretending to whisper to the missionary, hid her blushing face upon his shoulder; the conscious eyes of Ethelston and Lucy met; while Aunt Mary bestowed upon Colonel Brandon one of those knowing smiles with which elderly ladies usually think fit to accompany matrimonial allusions.

The awkwardness was of short duration; for the mutual feelings of the parties betrothed were no secret to any present; and Reginald was not of a disposition to endure unnecessary delays; so he drew Prairie–bird with gentle force towards her brother, and still retaining her hand in his own, he said, “Ethelston, will you, as guardian of your sister, consent to my retaining this fair hand? Beware how you reply, lest I should use my influence against you in a request which you may make to my father.”

Had Ethelston been ignorant of his sister’s feelings, he might have read them in the expression of her blushing countenance; but being already in full possession of them, and meeting a smile of approval from Colonel Brandon, he placed his sister’s hand within that of Reginald, saying, “Take her, Reginald, and be to her, as a husband, true, faithful, and affectionate, as you have been to me as a friend.”

It will not be supposed that Ethelston waited long for the consent of either her father or brother to his union with Lucy; and Paul MÜller agreed to remain at Mooshanne one week, at the end of which time the double ceremony was to take place.

While these interesting arrangements were in progress, the noise of wheels, and the tramp of many horses, announced the approach of a large party; upon which Colonel Brandon, accompanied by the missionary and Aunt Mary, went to see who the new comers might be, leaving the two young couples to follow at their leisure. The Colonel was not long kept in suspense as to the quality of his visitors, for before reaching the house, he heard the broad accent of David Muir’s voice addressing Reginald’s attendant.

“Thank ye, thank ye, Maister Parrot,” for so did he pronounce the Frenchman’s name; “if ye’ll just haud the uncanny beast by the head, Jessie can step on the wheel an’ be down in a crack. There, I tauld ye so; it’s a’ right noo; and Jessie, lass, ye need na’ look sae frighted, for your new gown’s nae rumpled, an’ Hairy will tak’ the bit parcel into the house for ye.”

“Indeed, father, I am not frightened,” said Jessie, settling the side curls under her bonnet upon her glowing cheek, and giving the parcel to Henry Gregson, whose hands had for the moment encircled her waist as she jumped from the wheel to the ground. Several vehicles of various descriptions followed, containing the spoils and baggage brought back from the prairies, together with Pierre, Bearskin, and all the members of the party who had accompanied Reginald and Ethelston, and who now came to offer their congratulation on the events attending their safe return; for the story of the wonderful restoration of Ethelston’s sister to her family had already spread throughout the neighbourhood, receiving, as it went, various additions and embellishments from the lovers of the marvellous.

Meanwhile, Jessie Muir had gathered from Monsieur Perrot sufficient information respecting the true state of affairs, to set her mind at rest with respect to Reginald Brandon’s intentions; and encouraged by the interest which the Colonel and Lucy had always taken in her prospects, she felt a secret assurance that they would prove powerful auxiliaries in advocating the cause of Harry Gregson, and reconciling her parents to his suit. Neither was she mistaken in her calculation; for while the preparation for the entertainment of the numerous guests was going forward, Colonel Brandon, after a brief consultation with Ethelston, called David Muir aside, and opened to him the subject of the youth’s attachment to his daughter.

It is difficult to say whether the surprise or the wrath of the merchant were the greater on hearing this intelligence, which was not only a death–blow to his own ambitious hopes, but was, in his estimation, an act of unpardonable presumption on the part of young Gregson.

“Colonel, ye’re surely no in airnest! it’s no possible! Jessie, come here, ye hizzie!” said he, stamping with anger, and raising his voice to a louder pitch.

It happened that Jessie, being engaged in conversation with Monsieur Perrot, did not hear his call, and the Colonel took the opportunity of leading him a little further from the house, and entreating his calm attention to the explanations which he had to give. David walked on in silence, his face still red with anger, and his heart secretly trembling within him when he thought of his next interview with Dame Christie.

The Colonel, who knew both the weak and the good points of his companion’s character, dexterously availing himself of both, effected in a few minutes a considerable change in his views and feelings on the subject. He represented to him that Ethelston would now have a house and establishment of his own; that his property was already very considerable, and, with prudent management, would receive gradual augmentation; and that from his attachment to Gregson, it was his intention to make the honest mate’s son the managing agent of his concerns; to facilitate which purpose he, Colonel Brandon, proposed to advance a few thousand dollars, and to establish the young man in a suitable house in Marietta.

“David,” continued the Colonel, “you and I have long been acquainted; and I do not think you ever yet knew me to give you counsel likely to injure your welfare or your prospects, and you may trust me that I would not willingly do so now. The young people are attached to each other; they may certainly be separated by force; but their hearts are already united. Harry is an honest, industrious, enterprising lad; he will start in the world with fair prospects; every year will lend him experience; and as you and I are both of us on the wrong side of fifty, we may be very glad a few summers hence to rest from active business, and to have about us those to whom we can entrust our affairs with well–placed confidence.”

There was much in this speech that tended to soothe, as well as to convince, the merchant. He was gratified by the familiar and friendly expressions employed by the Colonel, while his shrewd understanding took in at a rapid glance the prospective advantages that might accrue to the agent managing the extensive affairs of the families of Brandon and Ethelston; added to this, he was at heart a fond and affectionate father; and the symptoms of irritation began to disappear from his countenance; yet he scarcely knew how to reply, and before even he meant to speak, the name of his gude–wife escaped from his lips.

“Leave me to manage Dame Christie,” said the Colonel, smiling. “Ethelston shall go into Marietta himself, and break the subject to her, founding his request upon his regard for the elder Gregson, who has served under him so faithfully ever since his boyhood. Come, my good friend, let us join the party: I do not press you for any reply now; but if you should detect a stolen glance of affection between the young people, do not be angry with Jessie, but think of the day when you first went forth, dressed in your best, to win a smile from Dame Christie.”

“Ah, Colonel, ye’re speakin’ of auld lang syne now!” said the merchant, whose ill–humour was no longer proof against the friendly suggestions of his patron, though he muttered to himself, in an under–tone, as they returned towards the house, “I ken now why Maister Hairy was aye sae fond o’ the store, when the ither lads were fain to win’ awa to hunt in the woods, or to fish in the river! Weel a weel, he’s a douce callant, an’ the lassie might aiblins gae farther an’ fair waur!”

The preparations for the entertainment were still in progress, under the superintendence of Aunt Mary and Monsieur Perrot; the latter having already doffed his travelling attire, and assumed, in his jacket of snowy white, the command of the kitchen, when Harry Gregson, who had opened the Marietta post–bag, put a letter into the hands of Reginald Brandon, which he instantly knew, by the bold, careless hand–writing, to be from his uncle Marmaduke. He broke the seal, and read as follows:—

“Shirley Hall, July 15.

“Dear Reginald,

“I have very lately received your letter, announcing your intention of making a hunting excursion in the west, in pursuit of bears, elk, wolves, Indians, and other wild beasts. I hope you’ll come safe back, with a score or two of their outlandish brushes. After you left me, I began to feel very uncomfortable, and did not know what was the matter, for I was cold by night, and sulky and out of sorts by day. Parson Williams took me in hand; but though we drank many a bottle of old port together, and played drafts, and attended several road–meetings (which you know was an amusement I had never tried before), it was all no use, and I began to think that I was on a down–hill road to the next world; but, somehow or other, it happened that I dropped in now and then to the parsonage, and whenever I had talked half an hour with Margaret (you remember Margaret, the parson’s daughter), I felt in a better humour with myself and all the world. So matters went on, until one day I mustered courage to ask her to come up to the hall, and change her name to Shirley. She did so, and your old uncle writes with the halter round his neck. When I married, Perkins came down from London (the son of my father’s solicitor) with a dozen boxes of parchment, in a post–chaise; and made me sign my name at least a score of times; after which I desired him to draw up two more deeds for my pleasure. These were for transferring to yourself, and to your sister, a legacy left me a few years ago by an old relation whom I had never seen, and whose money I did not want. The amount is forty thousand pounds; so there will be twenty thousand pounds apiece for you, and you may set to work and clear (as you used to call it) an estate as big as the old county of Warwick. I explained what I was about to Meg, telling her, at the same time, that it was a debt that I owed you in conscience, having considered you for so many years as my heir, until her plaguing black eyes made a fool of me, and threatened me with the prospect of brats of my own. For this she pulled my ears twice; first for calling her Meg instead of Greta, by which name she was known at the parsonage; and secondly, for talking about the brats, a subject which always makes her cheeks redden. But I had no idea of putting the reins into her hand so early in the day, and I told her outright, that the first boy should be called Reginald, to please me; and the second might be called Greto, to please her; and the third might be called Marmaduke to please the family: on which, without waiting to hear any more, she bolted, and left me master of the field. I have just mentioned this, in order that you, if ever you get into a similar scrape, may know how to behave yourself. Mr. Perkins has completed his deeds of assignment, and has received my instructions to transfer the money to America by the next vessel, in bills upon Messrs. Powell and Co., of Philadelphia; and though I have more than once found you as proud and as straight–laced as a turkey–cock where money was concerned, I know that you dare not, you dog!—I say you dare not refuse, either for yourself or your sister, this token of the affectionate regard of your uncle,

“Marmaduke Shirley.”

The flush that came over Reginald’s open countenance as he read this epistle from his eccentric but warm–hearted relative, did not escape the watchful eye of Lucy, who was standing near him, and she anxiously inquired whether it contained any unpleasant intelligence.

“Read it, Lucy, and judge for yourself,” he replied, while he went to communicate its contents to Colonel Brandon.

We will leave to the reader’s imagination the mirth and festivity that reigned at Mooshanne during that happy evening; how Pierre, Baptiste, and Bearskin talked over their adventures of ancient and of recent date; how David Muir’s grey eye twinkled when he detected Jessie exchanging a stolen glance with Harry Gregson; how the cheers rang through the forest when the Colonel proposed the health of Prairie–bird, the long–lost child of his dearest friend, the bride of his only son; and how Aunt Mary’s sweetmeats and preserves adorned her snowy table–cloth; and how Monsieur Perrot had contrived, as if by magic, to load the hospitable board with every swimming, flying, and running eatable creature to be found in the neighbourhood, dressed in every known variety of form. The healths of Ethelston and Colonel Brandon had not been forgotten; and the latter, observing a shade of melancholy upon his son’s brow, said to him aloud, “Reginald, you have not yet given your friends a toast, they claim it of you now.”

Thus addressed, Reginald, reading in the dark eyes of his betrothed, feelings kindred to his own, said in a voice of deep and undisguised emotion, “My friends, you will not blame me if I interrupt for a moment the current of your mirth, but it would be doing equal injustice, I am sure, to your feelings and to my own, were we to part without a tribute to the memory of one, now no more, to whose self–devoted heroism Ethelston owes the life of a sister, and I the dearest treasure I possess on earth: The memory of my Indian brother, War–Eagle, late Chief of the Delawares!”

The party rose in silence, every head was uncovered, a tear trembled on the long lashes of Prairie–bird’s downcast eye, and Baptiste muttered to himself, yet loud enough to be heard by all present, as he reversed his glass, “Here’s to the memory of the boldest hand, the fleetest foot, and the truest heart among the sons of the LenapÉ!”

As the day was now drawing to a close, David Muir returned to Marietta, Ethelston having promised to pay a visit to Dame Christie on the following day. The merchant was so elated by the day’s festivities, that he winked his grey twinkling eye at Jessie, forgetting at the moment that she knew nothing of the conversation that had passed between the Colonel and himself; and when the youth, in escorting them homeward, warned David of sundry holes and stumps upon the road, thereby enabling them to avoid them, he poked his elbow into Jessie’s side, saying, “He’s a canny lad, yon Hairy Gregson; what think ye, Jessie?”

She thought that her father was crazy, but she said nothing; and a certain vague sensation of hope came over her, that all was going more smoothly for her wishes than she had dared to expect.

For the ensuing week the whole village of Marietta was enlivened by the preparations for the twofold wedding at Mooshanne; silks, ribbons, and trinkets without end were bought, and there was not a settlement within fifty miles in which the miraculous return of Reginald Brandon’s bride was not the theme of discourse and wonder. Paul MÜller became in a few days so universally beloved at Mooshanne, that all the members of the family shared in the regret with which Prairie–bird contemplated his approaching departure; and as they became more intimately acquainted with him, and drew from him the various information with which his mind was stored, they no longer marvelled at the education that he had found means, even in the wilderness, to bestow upon his adopted child. Colonel Brandon was extremely desirous to make him some present in token of the gratitude which he, in common with all his family, felt towards the worthy missionary, and spoke more than once with Reginald on the subject: but the latter stopped him, saying, “My dear father, leave us to manage that, we have entered into a secret conspiracy, and must entreat you not to forbid our carrying it into execution.”

The colonel smiled, and promised obedience, knowing that those in whose hands the matter rested were more familiar with the good man’s wants and wishes than he could be himself.

At length the week, long as it may have appeared to Reginald and Ethelston, passed away. The morning which united them to those whom they had respectively loved through so many trials and dangers, arrived; and Paul MÜller, having joined the hand of his beloved pupil to the chosen of her heart, prepared to take his leave, when she knelt to him for his blessing. With faltering voice and tearful eyes he gave it; she could not speak, but pointing to a small box that stood upon an adjoining table, with a letter addressed to him beside it, yielded to the gentle force with which her bridegroom drew her from the room.

Taking up the letter, the missionary read as follows:—

“Prairie–bird.”