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D. 1755-1 7^3- BY/' Eleanor C. Donnelly. |"-(»N!««-) PHILADELPHIA : H. L. KILNER & Co., PUBLISHERS. TWO COPIES HECEIVED. Library of CORgraiii Offic* of tbt D£G121899 Rvglitir of Copyrlgbtft -0^: ^-^ V 48566 OOPTBUBT, IW9, BT H. L. KtUISB A Ca MOONDOOP*! V " I THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED BY ITS AUTHOR TO HER GOOD FRIENDS MR. AND MRS. CHARLES J. O'MALLEY, OF Louisville, Kentucky, AS A TRIBUTE OF HER ESTEEM FOR THAT GIFTED COUPLE, WHO, (LIKE THE BROWNINGS), ARE IDEALLY UNITED IN THEIR UT- ERARY LABORS, AS IN THEIR UFE OF WEDDED LOVE. msmmf^Bmmie'^rmmm^mmF mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmBmmmmmmmmmmmmmimBmmmmmmmmmmmmmmiBKmmmimmmmmmm ■■■■■P^^aMHHi CBAP. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. yni. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI, CONTENTS. PAOB The Surprise at the Fort 7 Timothy and Willv are Adopted '9 Love Finds A Way, AND— A Mother 3P AN Indian Princess AND Her Handmaidens . . 44 The Yankee Woman's Message 53 Marianne St. Ange The Attack on the Bu. khouse 75 What Happened AT Threk Rivers 9« The Mission OP THE Assumption "° Strangers from the Forest "7 The Face at the Window '45 A Fatal Game of Ball 3 In the shadow of Death-An Unexpected ^ Meeting. • • • ,j\U. The Secret of the Scales, and What Came of It . 190 A Discovery and a Dilemma In the Double House at Philadelphu »*i r- I 'ijt Lot Leslie's Folks. CHAPTER I. THE SURPRISE AT THE PORT. The place where this strange old story had its beginning was Swan Island, on the coast of Maine, not far from the mouth of the Kennebec river. There, in the year 1755, stood a good-sized fort, well-manned with English soldiers, to pro- tect the people against the Indians. The building was of stout wood ; and around it, stretched, far and wide, a close fence of high, strong stakes or palisades, with a big gate in the middle, heavily barred and bolted. One by one, the island-houses had been builded within this fence, and as near as might be, to the fort. The nighest to it was the cabin of old Captain James Wilson, who had fought at the taking of Cape Breton, ten years before. One of his daughters had married a farmer from the mainland, named Lot Leslie; but, as f 8 LOT LESLIE^S FOLKS. Grandmother Wilson was wasting away in dys- pepsia, and the captain's sight beginning to fail, Lot Leslie and his folks had come to live at the homestead on Swan Island: and took care of things for the old people. There were four Leslie children, Faith and Hope, the two elder girls, aged, the one, twelve, and the other, nine years ; Wilson, the only boy, just turned eight ; and little Love, the bal.y of three summers. All were nice, healthy, merry children, with the bloom and freshness of the salt winds in their faces. The boy and the baby-girl resem- bled their good-looking mother. Wilson gave promise of being, some day, a handsome fellow ; but little Love was already a real beauty, and the pet of the household. She was very plump, and of small bones. Her eyes were large, black and soft as velvet, with long, dark, fringy lashes. Her dimpled cheeks were like roses in the milk of her snowy skin ; and her head was covered with a silken mass of curls of that deep, rich red, sometimes seen in old pictures by Titian. This union of bluck eyes with red hair and a dazzling complexion was the special charm of Mistress Lot Leslie. She was, also, what Joe Gargery has called, " a fine figger of a woman" ; and it was always a marvel to the gossips of % vay in dys- ling to fail, live at the ok care of Faith and >ne, twelve, e only boy, he bal.y of • ildren, with t winds in -girl resem- V^ilson gave Drae fellow ; beauty, and x>nes. Her velvet, with pled cheeks snowy skin ; [ken mass of 3 seen in old ed hair and ial charm of o, what Joe \ a woman " ; e gossips of THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT. » Swan Island how so handsome a girl as Hope Wilson could have " throw'd herself away," as they termed it, "on sich a humly, no account, insignif'cant creetur as Lot Leslie." But love, as every'jody ought to know, is blind ; and Mistress Lot dearly loved her plain little husband, finding in him many charming qualities which her neighbors failed to see. She valued highly his dog-like devotedness to herself and children; and she prized above aU, his manly courage. For, small and ugly as he was, the little man was as brave as a lion. Although they foresaw it not, pressing need there was soon to be for aU of Lot's grit and gal- lantry. . In the midsummer of 1755, some runners from the fort brought back word that Indians had been seen skulking around the beach, many of them painted black. Now, in .those days, when Indians pamted themselves black, by means of charcoal and grease, the islanders knew it to be a sure sign of war. So, the commander of the fort gave orders to the soldiers to look well their guns ; and enjoined upon all within the enclosure, to see to it that no gate or door be left open to the prowling sav- ages. In spite of^ these strict orders, however, one 10 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. beautiful July morning, a little after daybreak, two disobedient boys, sons of a good-for-nothing fisherman, sneaked out of the garrison, to go black-berrying, and left the gate open behind them. The watchful Indians were close at hand, lying- flat upon their faces. They sprang upon the boys, like crouching panthers, and killed them so quickly with their hatchets, that the hapless lit- tle fellows had not time even to cry aloud. In the space of ten minutes, nearly a hundred Indians had crept silently through the gate, and swarmed into the enclosure. They were dreadful to behold — those noiseless, creeping savages, with their fluttering scalp- locks, their almost naked, dark bodies, and their brown faces, either fierce or cunning, streaked up and down with black, red, yellow, or green paint. Each carried a gun or hatchet ; and long, sharp knives glittered in their belts. Just as the sun came up, like a ball of fire, out of the sea, the Indians burst upon the fort with a hideous yell that wakened all the islund-sleepers. Then, might be seen the poor commander in his night-shirt, rallying his frightened forces, and detailing the men who were to climb up to the lookout on the roof, where the fire-arrows were already beginning to fall. The shingles had been covered, a few days be- 'j. THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT. 11 daybreak, )r-nothing on, to go m behind land, lying upon the }d them so hapless lit- oud. a hundred ) gate, and e noiseless, ing scalp- I, ar.d their itreaked up ;reen paint, long, sharp of fire, out fort with a nd-sleepers. nder in his forces, and > up to the rrows were }W days be- fore, with damp turf; but, alas! the hot July sun had baked it hard and dry, and through its cracks, the sparks found space to land. They had scarcely smelled the smoke of the burning roof, before the noise of hatchets against the weakest door of the fort gave the garrison to know that their time was short. A crash, a mad rush inwards of dark, shrieking demons— and the enemy was on them, face to face! The awful end had come. The soldiers fought like brave men ; but, thus surprised and only half-awake, what could a few white men do against so many howling, blood- thirsty savages? The fort soon became a scene of horror. The dead and the dying lay about on all sides ; but, without stopping to scalp their victims, the Indians hurried to old Wilson's cabin, to settle a long-standing grudge against the captain. The old man and his wife, coming out to meet them with bribes, pleaded in vain for mercy. " Thus do we settle our score ! " cried the In- dians, in their own tongue, striking at them with knives dripping with blood ; and the old couple, gashed and bleeding, their grey hair dabbled in gore, were left, stretched lifeless, across their own doorsill. The savagesi leaped over their bodies, and I r» 12 LOT Leslie's tolks. rushed indoors, shouting and gibbering like ma- niacs. At the head of the narrow staircase, Lot Leslie met the Indians with his rifle, and fired upon them. He knew that Mistress Leslie and her four chil- dren, with Prudence SkiUet, the hired woman, were all crying, and clinging to each other over in the little front bedroom. His young man-of-all-work, Timothy Grind- stone, armed with an axe, stood bravely at Leslie's side, and, with him, tried to make fight against the redskins. But they prevailed nothing. Strange to say, the savages did not try to kill the two men who were wholly in their power ; but, dragging out the women and children from the bedroom, they bound fast the party of seven, and hurried them down to the beaoh. There, they left them, under guard of an Indian or two. Then, tearing back to the fort, they first ransacked the premises, and all the near-by houses, destroying their furniture: scalped the wounded, mutilated the dead, and ended by car- rying oflf all the money and valuables they could lay hands on. Lastly, they set fire to Captain Wilson's cabin ; and, in the red light of the blazing buildings, went dancing and shrieking, like so many de- mons, back to their captives on the beach. THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT. 13 ig like ma* ircase, Lot , and fired jr four chil- •ed woman, I other over thy Grind- bravely at make fight led nothing. •t try to kill leir power ; lildren from le party of ) beach, of an Indian le fort, they [ the near-by scalped the nded by car- is they could ilson's cabin ; ig buildings, BO many de- beach. Alas! with what fear and fright did those poor souls behold the blood-stained wretches rushing down upon them ! They fully expected to be killed and scalped upon tiie spot ; and, although they had never in their lives been members of uny church— all, (ex- cept, perhaps, the baby), prayed fervently to God for help. Little did they dream, in that hour of darkest trial, how wonderfully, how blessedly, their good Father in heaven would, one day, answer their prayer! If they could have foreseen it, they might have cried out, then and there, in the words of our Lord to Zaccheus : " This day is salvation come to this house !" Blinded now, however, to all the heavenly blessings of the future, poor Mistress Leslie sat • upon a rock on the sands— her arms bound with rordsj and the big tears running down her comely face. She still seemed to see her murdered father and mother, coveretl with wounds and blood, ly- ing stark and cold, across the dooreill of the dear old home. She had been forced to step upon her mother's breast, as the savages dragged her over the threshold. She felt now as if her heart would burst, when her baby, her little Love, crept to her feet, and laid her pretty head upon her lap. She could r" 14 LOT Leslie's folks. not even clasp the darling to her bosom, because of her pinioned arms. Little Wilson pressed close to his father's side ; while Faith and Hope, white as death, and half- fainting from fright, huddled against Prudence and Timothy. Lot Leslie made use of a few moments of quiet, before the main body of Indians returned from the burning fort, to speak some words of warn- ing to his wife and family. He had lived for many years near the Indian settlements, and he knew a good deal about the ways and dispositions of the savages. ^* No matter what you see," he now said to the dear, helpless ones around him; "no matter what the Indians may do to you to-day, or at any other time, keep very still — bear it all in silence ! Cry out, or make a fuss, and the redskins'U either kill you at once, or put you to a slow torture." "O my baby! my little Love!" whispered Mistress Leslie with a great sob : " who can keep you from crying out? little, tender thing that you are 1 " " The Lord's hand is over the innocent, ma'am," said Prudence Skillet, whose early bringing-up had been among the Puritans, and who was fond of quoting Scripture. " Remember, David said in the Psalms : ' He made them also to be pitied of all those that carried them away captive.* " KS. r bosom, because his father's side ; I death, and half- gainst Pradence loments of quiet, IS returned from e words of warn- I near the Indian >d deal about the ages. B now said to the m; "no matter I to-day, or at any it all in silence/ redskins'll either . slow torture." )vel" whispered : ** who can keep snder thing that nnocent, ma'am," arly bringing-up nd who was fond nber, David said also to be pitied vay captive.' " THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT. 16 " Prudence, old girl," growled the man Timo- thy : 'you'll not find any pity among these red- skinned imps of Satan. You may make up your mind to that. Hark to them 1 Here they come, (the Lord be merciful to us 1) howling and leaping like furies out of the hot place 1 " It was a horrid sight, indeed, on a blessed sum- mer morning, when the sea was like a quiet lake, and all in nature was so beautiful, peaceful and sunny— that great throng of hideous savages dancing along the sands, shrieking, and waving over their heads their bloody hatchets. They ran straight to the poor prisoners, and shook their knives and tomahawks in their faces ; but, seeing that they all sat or stood, white and still as statues of stone, (even little Love hiding her eyes on her mother's knee, without a sound) they did them, at that time, no further harm. The chief of the band, Haukimah, gave some orders to one or two of the savages. These hur- ried at once to a little cove on the east coast of the island. They were lost to sight for a few moments ; and when next they were seen, it was in one of their Indian canoes, now being rowed along the shore from the spot where, all the past night, they had been in hiding. There were eight or ten of these boats, great and small. T^iey were rowed by the Indian -Tiimm-imwKff'^mt^- 16 LOT LESLIE'S FOLK 8. i , squaws in sacks of coarse, gaudy calico — their bare arms, strong and brown, seeming well used to the oars. Again, Haukiniah gave his orders. Timothy Grindstone and little Wilson Leslie were seized by four of the Indians, and dragged into one of the smaller canoes, which immedi- ately put off from the shore. Next, the maid Prudence, with the little girls, Faith and Hope, were stowed among a crowd of savages in a big canoe ; and, after the other boats had all been filled up with Indians, some of them guarding Lot and his wife in the chief's canoe — an old squaw was ordered out from the last boat. Haukimah beckoned her to him with his hatchet, calling her JV ^-o-kmn, or Grandmother. She was ugly and dark. Her face was a net- work of wrinkles, and the loose flesh hung in a double dewlap under her chin. Her cotton sack an petticoat were very dirty; but her expres- si(ni was mild and peaceful. " ^'-mjcwA-mA / " grunted the chief; and Lot Leslie had just remembered that the word was Indian for " baby " — when Haukimah caught up little Love from the sands (where she had been left to jreep about alone), and tossed her into N'-o-kum's withered arms. Another word was spoken by the chief to the old crone. It was "Attmoom,'" but it was '\ THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT. 17 [ico — their well used son Leslie d dragged i immedi- Little girls, I crowd of >ther boats ae of them 's canoe — i last boat, is hatchet, was a net- huDg in a otton sack ler expres- ; and Lot word was caught up ) had been d her into bief to the at it was many a long and weary day before the captives of Swan Island came to understand what " Atta- worn " meant in English. Little Love was a fearless, sociable child. Added to which, sLo was now heavy with sleep, having been roused so early from her crib, that dreadful day. So, when N'-o-kum clasped her closely in her arms, and leaped with her into the last canoe that quitted the island, she cuddled down in the old woman's embrace, and slept quietly against her dirty bosom. Mistress Leslie, with her husband, in the fore- most boat, was being carried rapidly away from all they loved on earth. The lurid glow of their blazing home was red- dening the sky; and, looking back, poor Mrs. Lot saw, with anguish, her precious baby in the arms of that filthy savage. How bright, how dear to her, was the little head that slept upon that ugly pillow 1 A line from the Bible, (which she had not read for years), came back to her mind. It was about some other Mother, some great Woman of Israel, but she could not remember whom. , « • » "—-And thine oint, the captives were astonished to see great numbers of strange Indians running toward them, whooping, and wildly waving their arms. These were stripped naked, except for a cloth al)out their loins, and were painted in a horrid fashion in staring colors of brightest red, blue, yellow, and brown. They came on in irregular swarms, like great, gaudy butterflies, until they drew closer to Grind- stone and the boy. Then, they formed them- selves into two long lines, facing each other, about a couple of yards apart. While Timothy was regarding this movement with some concern, an Indian who spoke a little English, told him that he and the boy were ex- pected to run between these ranks to the village beyond. He further said that the strange Indians would flog them all the way ; and that the quicker they ran, the better, as they would cease to strike TIMOTHY ANU WILLY ARK Al»OI'Ti;i>. 21 »; for, in- [liladelphia, and, with in. Alleghany •n up to an the stream, 10. he captives of strange oping, and for a cloth in a horrid It red, blue, I like great, Jr to Grind- med them- >ach other, movement oke a little y were ex- the village ians would icker they to strike thutn whenever they reached the other end of the line. Now, (irindstono was a well-built man of twonty-Mvc, or tliorealK)utH, — wiry and muscular. He wuH an expert at high jumping and foot-rac- ing; and had taught little Wilson many wonder- ful tricks at the same. The boy had been trained by him to clear with ease the high pickets of the fort at Swan Island, to the admiration of soldiers and ollicers alike, and could leap to extraordinary heights, like a young kangaroo. "Willy!" wliispered Timothy, at that critical moment : " we've got to run for our lives. Make the best of your logs, my lad, and astonish the redskins ! " And with that, a couple of savages struck them a rousing blow in the back, and away down the ranks, they flew — every sannup and squaw in the double file shrieking and cracking at them, as they ran. But, never were there seen in those parts such a pair of white runners as Timothy and little Will. They sped between the blows of their tor- mentors, like creatures of the wind. Now, dodg- ing sticks, knives, and hatchets; again, leaping directly over the outstretched arm of some screaming squaw, Timothy led the way, and lit- tle Willy bravely followed. The boy was as plucky as the man. His *f . r' 22 LOT Leslie's folks. pretty head was lifted, his fine eyes shone like stars. Once, toward the end of the dreadful race. Grindstone looking back wildly over his shoul- der, (blood and sweat streaming down his cheeks), saw that his little mate was sorely beset by the women and children of the tribe. They, whose hearts should have been gentler and more merciful than the men's, were cruel and fierce as wolves. They had left the tracks of their fists and finger-nails upon Willy's bonny little face. It was bruised and bleeding — and the poor child, not much more than a baby ! " Jump for it, my boy 1 " panted Timothy as he ran, sweating at every pore: "Give the big jump r taught you on the island. It's only a few steps further ; jump for my back, and I'll carry you safe to the end 1 " And behold ! to the surprise and delight of tue savages, the plucky little fellow, drawing back a pace or two, made a sudden dart forward, and leaping into the air, cleared the space between him and his friend, and landed safely astride of Timothy's stout shoulders. Just as he clasped him tightly about the neck, half-crying, half-laughing with the strain. Grind- stone reached the first of the wigwams that marked the outskirts of the Indian settlement. TIMOTHY AND WILLY AKE ADOPTED. 23 shone like adful race, |r his shoul- down his sorely beset be. teen gentler were cruel ir fists and face. d the poor nothy as he ve the big 3 only a few id I'll carry flight of tue ving back a >rvrard, and ce between y astride of it the neck, •ain. Grind- warns that ttlement. The savages burst into a great cheer. The race was over. The trial was past. Timothy and the boy, breathless and exhausted as they were, had won the admiration and re- spect of the whole tribe. The very savages, who, just liefore, had joined in flogging and stoning the captives, now escorted them with every sign of good-will to the tent of their chief. Here, they were feasted upon dried deer's meat, and on boiled hominy, freely mixed with bear's oil and sugar. . As they were very hungry, they ate heartily of the food ; and, seeing that the race and the rough treatment they had suffered appeared to have left them rather weak and white, the chief forced them to drink of a cordial made of honey, rum and water, which warmed them through and through, and filled them with new life. They were, afterward, given places of honor in the centre of the camp. For, there was an old tradition in that tribe as to the coming of a white male child, who would be wonderfully gifted in every way, and who would, one day, lead their warriors on to a universal victory over their enemies. Willy knew nothing of this old legend; and Timothy was equally ignorant of it ; but sitting there together, they were moved to give humble thanks to God for His mercy in keeping them S4 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. from death, and spoke softly to each other of the dear lost ones they might never hope to see again on earth. Meanwhile, the Indians, unusually elated by the i)ossession of the boy, were going about from tent to tent, eating, smoking, or painting them- selves. Some beat a kind of drum, and sang hideously. Others played a flute, made of hollow cane : or twanged the Jew's harp. Here and there, groujw of the younger men, some of the dandies of the tribe, sat upon the ground, playing a gambling game, of the nature of dice. A number of plum-stones were thrown into a small wooden bowl. One side of each stone was black, the other, white. The players shook the bowl, in turn, crying out: "//ite hits, hits! Honesy^ honesy! Rago, rago!^'' — which Timo- thy and his little friend discovered, after while, meant that the gamblers were calling in their Indian lingo, for black or white, or the color they wished to bet upon. The game always ended by turning the bowl upside down, and counting the " blacks " and " whites," as they chanced to fall. As the result of the game, bunches of gaudy plumes, knives, bracelets, strings of wampum, and other glittering finery, changed hands rapidly — TIMOTHY AND WILLY ARE ADOPTED. 26 )ther of the to see again • elated by about from iting them- j hideously. >w cane : or unger men, It upon the ' the nature rown into a h stone was s shook the hits, hits / hich Timo- ttfter while, ng in their r the color me always down, and 8," as they es of gaudy impum,and is rapidly — but not without considerable bickering and quar- relling. In consideration of their courage and skill m the race, (and out of respect to the boy's supposed dignity), Timothy and Wilson slept that night in the tent of the chief, upon a bed of deer-skins. The next day, jnst after sunrise, a number of the Indians led them out again to the centre of the camp. They formed a circle round the captives ; and two of them began to pull the hair out of the heads of Grindstone and the boy. This, they did, by smearing their fingers with ashes, which a couple of squaws held for them upon pieces of bark. Thus, getting a firmer hold, they plucked the poor captives of their hair, as if they had been plucking a pair of turkeys of their featners. When both heads were quite bald, saving three scalp-locks on the crown, they dressed these up in their own savage fashion. Two of them were :vrapped about with a narrow, beaded strap made by themselves for that end; the other, they plaited at fuU length, and stuck full of sUver brooches. After this, and while the eyes of the suflferers were still streaming with tears of pain, they bored their noses and ears, and fixed them oS with ear- rings of silver, and nose-jewels. 26 LOT LESLIE S FOLKS. ^ K'ext, ordering them to strip off their clothes, the savages painted their bodies, limbs, and faces with many brilliant colors. Timothy and Willy were still smarting and stinging (although in a brave silence), from the many wounds upon their heads and faces, when their masters put big belts of wampum around their necks, and fastened silver bands on their iiands and right arms. In this savage rig, an old chief led them' out into the main street of the village, and cried aloud very quickly, several times: ''Coo-wigh! coo- wigh ! "—being the Indian for '* Halloo ! " At this, all the tribe came running, and stood about the old chief, who held the captives by the hand — the one on his right, the other, on his left. Grindstone fully expected that he and Willy were now about to be put to death in some cruel fashion. He raised his eyes to heaven, feeling very ignorant, and helpless, and unfitted to die ; but saying solemnly : " Lord have mercy on me, and forgive me all my sins, for Jesus' sake ! Amen." Words, which little Willy repeated after him, in a small, soft voice. His whisper was quite drowned by the very loud voice of the old chief, v/ho made a speech to the crowd, handing oyer the captives, at its end, to three young Indians. r heir clothes, }s, and faces narting and !e), from the faces, when pura around ids on their ed them out 1 cried aloud -wiyh ! coo- ool" ^, and stood )tives by the ', on his left. B and Willy 1 some cruel iven, feeling itted to die ; rgive me all "^ords, kvhich I small, soft by the very ide a speech ■lives, at its TIMOTHY AND WILLY ABE ADOPTED. 27 These led Timothy and the boy down the ad- jacent bank to the river, urging them straight on, until the water was up to Willy's chm. Then, the savages made signs to Grindstone to duck himself and Willy in the river. But, the white man, not understandmg their monkey-shines, and believing they meant to drown him and the child, made as if he would swim for his life; at which, the Indians seized both man and boy, and soused them in the water, giving them a good washing and rubbing. The cool water was very pleasant to their wounds, yet the poor sufferers stiU feared the worst. One of their tormentors who spoke a little English managed to say, however, "No hurt you ! " which gave the captives some comfort and courage ; but, all the while, the savages on the bank of the river, cried out: '' Quethepeh ! ' (Make haste!) and laughed long and loud at the struggles of the half-drowning creatures. The bath being ended, Timothy and the boy were led up to the council-house, where some of the tribe dressed them out in new ruffled shirts, leggings trimmed with beads and gay ribbons, handsome mocoasins and garters. Their heads and faces were again painted in bright colors, and a bunch of red and yellow feathers tied to the scalp-look^ on the crown of each. 28 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. Seated on a bear-skin, with Willy at his side, Timothy was presented with a pipe, a tomahawk, and a pouch made from the hide of a pole-cat, and stuffed with tobacco, and dry sumach leaves. Willy was also given a small knife and a baby tomahawk, with flint, steel, and a piece of touch- wood. Then, the rest of the Indians came into the council-chamber, dressed, painted and plumed in their grandest fashion. They took their seats in the order of their rank ; and, for a good while, smoked their pipes in profound silence. At length, the oldest chief made a speech to the captives, which was explained to them, on the spot, by the Indian who spoke the best English. The old chief said : " My big son and my little son, you are now flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone. By the ceremony Just performed, every drop of white blood has been washed out of your veins. Tou are taken into the Caughnewaga nation. You are adopted into our warlike tribe, in the place of a great man, my brother, who once belonged to us, and of his little son, who is also dead. After what has passed this day, you are one of us by an old strong law of ours. You have, now, noth- ing to fear. We are as much bound to love, sup- TIMOTHY AND WILLY ARE ADOPTED. 29 it his side, omahawk, a pole-cat, Etch leaves, .nd a baby 9 of touoh- 8 into the plumed in ir of their their pipes I. speech to I them, on ) the best >u are now B. By the ) of white jins. Tou bion. You he place of lelonged to ad. After le of us by now, noth- } love, sup- port, and defend you, from this out, as if you were born children of the forest, sons of our own great family." The cunning old chief said nothing about the ancient tradition of his tribe, which made Willy especially valuable and desirable to the Caugh- newagas. It had been early agreed between him and his council, that it would be safer to suppress the facts from the captives, lest they should pre- sume too much upon their privileges; But the old superstition of the tribe added greatly to the warmth of their welcome, as the Indians crowded around " brother" Timothy and "nephew" Willy who, for their part, were not as much elated at the new relationship, as their hosts might have supposed. While Timothy was turning over in his mind what had been said to them ; and, truth to tell, not putting much trust in the fine words of the old chief,— a big savage, painted black, and, flour- ishing over his head a belt of red wampum, darted into the council-chamber, shouting in terrific tones : " Haukimah has returned ! Haukimah has re- turned ! TiMscag (this night), he comes to lead us to war against the Wyandots I " CHAPTER III. LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND— A MOTHER. In the upper chamber of a large, old-fashioned house, on the outskirts of Montreal, a young and beautiful lady sat alone. The room was spacious, and richly furnished as a bedroom. Costly rugs lay about on the polished floor; delicate laces veiled the great windows, looking front upon the suburbs of more than two centuries ago ; and opening back upon a big, splendid garden, full of midsummer bloom, and scent, and song. On tho walls, hung many an oil-painting (of the great masters) of the Madonna and her Holy Child ; with, here and there, dainty pictures on ivory or copper of the angels and saints of God. But the sad eyes of the young and beautiful lady were not fixed upon these as long or as wistfully as they were on another and smaller picture hanging over the Blessed Virgin's shrine, beside the huge, carved, mahogany bedstead, with its curtains of crimson silk. It was the portrait of a little girl of some three or four summers. The face was lovely as that 30 lOTHEB. Id-fashioned a, young and ly furnished }out on the d the great suburbs of •pening back midsummer -painting (of ,nd her Holy ' pictures on ints of God. md beautiful I long or as and smaller rgin's shrine, ly bedstead, >f some three >vely as that LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND— A MOTHER. 31 of a cherub. Its dimpled cheeks were round and rosy as t.win-ftowers. Under the broad, white brow, round which clustered a crop of silken curls of deep, rich red, a pair of wonderful eyes smiled out at the gazer-large, black, and soft as velvet, with long fringy lashes. The pretty pouting lips, like the halves of a divided cherry, seemed ready to speak the word, "Mammal" Hot tears rushed into the lady's eyes, as she gazed, and ran in streams down her pale cheeks. The face on the wall was so faithful a little copy of her own, that it was easy to guess the cause of her grief, even before she covered her eyes with her wnite jewelled hands, and sobbed aloud: « t 1.1 " My only one I my lost Marianne 1 If I could but hear you call me 'mamma!' once again! How can I bear it? A year, to^ay, since my darling baby died!" She rose fiom her chair, and went to the big mahogany chest Oi drawers on the opposite side of the room. She drew a key from the silver chain at her girdle. Opening with it an upper drawer, she took out of it, with many kisses and tears, some little dresses, a baby's embroidered pinafore, and a pair of tiny shoes, still bearing the wrinkles of fat ittle ankles, and the print of baby toes. 1 ■> 111. I II II WW— i—^a— 11 8S LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. ■ A shower oi withered rose leaves fell out of the folds of the snowy garments ; and with them, dropped upon the floor, (from a bit of silver paper,) a silky ourl of Titian red. Stooping, the lady caught it quickly up. She was pressing it tenderly to her lips, when a rap came at the chamber-door, and a waiting-maid entered. A small, dark woman, with a quiet, attentive face. " Madame," said she, '* the old Indian squaw is here again. She has journeyed far ; she is very tired and hungry. Will you please come into the kitchen, and see what she has brought you ? " " In a moment, Margot," replied Madame St. Ange— for that was her name. "Give the old woman some bread and coffee ; and let her rest in the lower hall until I come." With a low curtsey, the maid departed. Then, in the perfumed solitude of her beanti- fol chamber, after softly smoothing out the little garments, piece by piece, and laying them lov- ingly back in the drawer, the lady kissed once more the tress of baby hair, and hid it among the faded rose leaves. This done, the key turned in the drawer, and restored to her chaMm/M^ Madame St. Ange bathed b.ar reddened eyelids in rose-water from a crystal cruet on her toilet-table, and passed down the staircase to the big sunny hall. IP Tr LOVB FINDS A WAY, AND— A MOTIIKR. 38 fell out of with them, t of silver y up. She when a rap aiting-maid th a quiet, an gqnaw is she is very come into ughtyou?" Madame St. ive the old i let her rest irted. : her beanti- >ut the little g them lov- kissed once id it among drawer, and le St. Ange >-water from and passed haU. The old squaw had just finished her bowl of cof- fee at the foot of the stairs. She stood up at the sound of the mistress' step. She was ugly, dark, and dirty ; but her wrinkled face, with the double dewkp under the chin, was not a bad face. It had a motherly, friendly look. "Well, N'-o-kum," said Madame St Ange, kindly, " what have you to sell to^ay ?" "Behold, Madame 1" cried Margot, with a laugh, pointing to a small object inside the ad- joining kitchen, which, (standing as she did with her back to the half-closed door), Madame St. Ange had not yet discovered. Now, pushing wide the door, and stepping for- ward into the kitchen, the lady saw, with sur- prise, a baby-girl crawling on the tiled floor, and picking some apple-peelings out of the cracks. The child was so dirty that her skin was dark as N'-o-kum's. Her clothes were in rags ; and a filthy cloth was tied tightly over her head, com- pletely covering her hair. There was nothing eye^weet or pleasing in her looks, but Madame's tender heart moved her to stoop and pat the forlorn little head, saying softly : " Poor little baby I poor motherless little papoose 1" « No papoose I " grunted the old squaw, " white baby, white bi^by. N'-o-kum want attawom:' BBW?«HWP!!i^ I M LOT LKSLIE'S folks. •♦ N'-Q-kum wants to sell you, does she, cherie f " said Madame, still kindly stroking the small head at her feet. At the sight of the fair, gentle face stooping tenderly over her, the poor little baby caught at the hem of Madame's gown, and hiding her eyes in it, burst into tears, with a loud cry. Madame's motherly heart was deeply moved. She was a good Christian. She had always been used to look upon and love the poor, espe- cially poor little children, as the living images of her Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. She now took the little waif into her arms ; and, in spite of the dirt and rags, pressed her dose to her warm bosom. The baby clung about her neck, hugging her, again and again, and sobbing "Mammal mamma!" till Madame's eyes overflowed with tears. "For Mademoiselle Marianne's sake," she whispered to Margot, "I would like to buy the little creature, and keep her for my own. But what \ \,AA Monsieur, my husband say ?" The maid shrugged her shoulders significantly, and made a despairing gesture— her hands ex- tended with the palms thrown upward. Her mistress sighed deeply. Carrying the child over to N'-o-kum, she put her reluctantly into the old squaw's arms. I LOVK FINDS A WAY, AND— A MOTHKR. 35 he, cherie f " e small head ace stooping iy caught at ing her eyes y- ply moved, had always e poor, espe- Qg images of o her arms; , pressed her jok, hugging g "Mamma! rflowed with sake," she like to buy for my own. and say ? " significantly, er hands ex- ird. Carrying the r reluctantly "Monsieur St. Ange is absent kom home," she said to the Indian woman. " I cannot take the baby from you, to-day. Maybe, the Sisters at the convent will buy her." Then to the maid : " Margot, give the child a cup of warm milk, and send her away with N'-o-kura." Madame's heart was very sore as she spoke the words. It cost her a sharp pang to give up the baby to the squaw. The poor little thing struggled fiercely m N'-o-kum's arms, and stretched out her fat hands to the beautiful white lady, screaming aU the while: " Mamma ! mamma 1 me want my mamma 1 " Madame St. Ange hurried out of the kitchen, and retreated to her chamber to escape those piercing cries — those tender pleadings, that awakened in her breast so many sad and touch- ing memories. . -», * i Her husband was a rich merchant of Montreal. He had gone on a business trip to Quebec, and was not exiiected back for a week or t:7o. He was a good man— an excellent Christian— always very kind and indulgent to his lovely, young wife. But he had one weakness— common to his na- tion. He was excessively proud of his name, and of his long line of illustrious ancestors. He could eyen be a little stern on these pomts ; f' il 86 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. SO that Madame did not feel sure enough of his aristocratic benevolence to buy the strange baby from the squaw in his absence, and adopt it for her own. True, she had plenty of money in her private purse (always kept well supplied by her hus- band) ; and, in a corner drawer of her cabinet was a dazzling array of gilt beads, gaudy feath- ers, silver chains, and other trinkets, for any one of which N'-o-kum would have joyfully bartered her whole tribe — to say nothing of a miserable little white child. Madame remembered, however, that when the rich old merchant, Louis St. Ange, had done her the honor of making her his wife, she had been only a simple Irish maiden, Eileen O'Connell, the protegee of his favorite sister, the Superioress of the Ursuline convent who had educated her. Beautiful as an angel, but without money, and without ancestors of any account — save for their Christian virtues — Eileen was deeply grateful for this noble gentleman's love, for the many splen- did proofs of his entire devotion to her. If now, it had been but a question of buying a spaniel or a singing-bird I But she would never grieve or annoy Louis by any wilful act — even though it were in the cause of holy charity. As twilight began to fall, she put aside the needle work, with which she had striven to dis- enough of his strange baby d adopt it for in her private by her hus- t her cabinet gaudy feath- 3, for any one fully bartered >f a miserable hat when the had done her she had been )n O'Connell, le Superioress lucated her. It money, and save for their y grateful for e many splen- her. u of buying a ) would never ful act — even charity, put aside the striven to dis- LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND— A MOTHER. 37 traxst her thoughte from the forlorn baby, and walked to one of the windows, lookmg down upon the road in front of her stately house. Pushing apart the lace curtains, she saw N o-kum, wi^h several young Indian men, squatting on the pavement, close to the main entrance. The poor baby had crawled away from her redskmned nurse, and was creeping up the steps, beatmgthe marble with her plump little hands, and scream- ing still the same pitiful cry: "Mammal mamma I me want my mamma I " The warm Irish heart of EUeen St. Ange ach^ at the sound. Had not she herself been a found- ling, dropped by night into the basket at the con- vent door by her decent young mother, whom the nuns found, next morning, dying upon their * Tho was better able, than she, to feel for the sorrows of the homeless and the motherless? Long after the doors of the big house were barred and bolted for the night-the maids in their beds, and sUence and darkness filling all the spacious rooms, the young mistress of all their splendors, wide awake upon her couch, heard through the open windows-for it was a warm August night-the wailing cry of the hapless baby at her door. The whole night long, the shrill voice of the child was never quiet. It would have been very i, 88 LOT LKSLIE'S folks. easy for N'-o-kum and her baud to whip or frighten the baby into silence ; but the savages had a pur- pose of their own in letting it cry, unchecked. The old squaw was keen-eyed, and shro'vvd enough. She had seen the tears, that day, on the white lady's lovely cheeks. She had noticed how ten- derly the young mistress had pressed the baby to her boscm. Was it not, out of that handsome house, that a small white coffin, covered with flowera, passed, a year before? Haukimah, the chief, had said to N'-o-kum at parting : **Attawotn ahiahasJieu netarms — sell the little girl I Barter, her to the French for what she will bring." And now, N'-o-kum was letting the baby cry, and cry, and cry — always—" Mamma 1 mamma 1 " — until Madame, the pale face, would be able to stand it no longer, but would open her door at the daybreak, and come down the steps, saying : " Here, N'-o-kum, here is your price ! Take it, and go your way ; but leave me the child ! " So, indeed, it fell out, in time ; only, instead of Madame, the mistress, Margot the maid came down the steps at sunrise, and, for a handful of silver and a string of gilt beads, was given the poor, hungry, crying baby, which she carried away with her, upstairs to her lady's room. ..JSS^UJiSSJt^-^. > or frighten » had a pur- ichecked. and shrc't^'^d m the white led how ten- the baby to louse, that a vers, passed, N'-o-kum at *w — sell the ich for what le baby cry, 1 mamma!" id be able to her door at eps, saying : e I Take it, hUdl" Yf instead of maid came a handful of as given the she carried ady's room. LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND— A MOTIIKR. 89 N'-o-kum and her gang departed at once, grinning and capering with delight. Madame St. Ange in a white linen dressing- gown, looking almost as white as the linen from her sleepless righv of heart-ache and conflicting fears, stretched out her arms eagerly for the child. But Margot (who had her doubts about the whole business) held fast to the baby, growling : "Not yet, my lady, not yetl The wretched little creature is fil >hy. She is covered with ver- min, and too dirty for Madame to handle. Let me first take her into the closet, and give her, if you please, a warm bath in Mam'selle Marianne's tub." A great sob shook the young mother from head to foot. " Yes, Margot," she whispered : " a warm bath, first, in Mam'selle Marianne's tub. I never thought I could bring myself to see her pretty clothes upon another; but here,"— running to the chest of drawers, and taking out an armful of her dead child's belongings— " when the poor baby is dean, put on her, good Margot, these things of my little lost one 1 " The maid disappeared with her charge; and Madame St. Ange kneeling upon her prayer- stool, and gazing, by turns, at the parian statue of the Blessed Virgin in its niche and at the I -yiiWiiyi4*^-iiaiia^ 40 LOT Leslie's folks. portrait of the lovely child that hang above it, said her morning prayers with many tears, and offered up to God, out of a full heart, the little stranger within her gates. She had some serious misgivings and anxieties to lay before the Divine Consoler. It was the first time in her married life that she had acted in a matter of any moment without her bus- band's knowledge and consent. To be sure, there was question, here, of the salvation of a precious soul ; but would the faith of the exclusive old merchant victoriously stand this crucial test? Eileen hid her face as she prayed. It seemed to her excited fancy as if the air were filled with the aristocratic phantoms of the dead St. Anges, who glared sternly at her, reproaching her with their cold eyes for this deed of mercy done to an outcast child beneath their honored descendant's roof. Presently, an outcry in the closet startled her from her doubts and her devotions. The voice of Margot rose in a shrill shriek— half-laughing, half -crying : " A miracle, my lady, a miracle ! MM, with that T 1 LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND— A MOTHER. 41 same queer laugh, broken by hysterical sobs— what f Was it a vision from the innocent dead ? Was it an angel visitant from Paradise ? Before the bewildered lady, stood a lovely child— at windows, N^othing was in the road- ie, she would ne. As old iidging away e, wild-eyed le steps of a 3 street, and, obbeff more LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND— A MOTHER. The Indian woman shrugged her shoulders, and shook off the hand upon her blanket. « Baby aU right ! " she grunted : " Baby, good wigwam 1 Baby, netansie kind saw enogan nigah, (daughter of a beautiful mother). Quithipeh! (make heart ! )" And all the other Indians marched past the weeping mother, wagging their heads, and cry- ing in mockery : " Qulthipeh ! quithipeh ! " With a deep groan of anguish, as if her over- taxed heart had broken, poor, pretty Mistress Leslie threw up her arms above her head, and, for the second time in her hardy life, dropped in a dead faint among the savages. by? Where ove?" was Mistress i \ sold by the , whose shop the St. Ange tranger than immmmmmmm CHAPTER IV. AN INDIAN PRINCESS AND HER HANDMAIDENS. The name of the Princess was Suitara, and she was the pet daughter of Pontiac, mighty chief of the Ottawas of Michigan. She was not much of a princess to look at — yet her father was as truly king of his tribe as the royal George, who then sat upon England's throne, was the ruler of his people. The girl was about sixteen years old. She was short and fat— so fat, that her small, cunning eyes seemed half-buried in the cushions of her broad, brown cheeks. Her forehead was very low, and her nose and red lips very thick ; but the wide mouth showed a splendid set of white, even teeth every time she spoke or smiled. Her coarse, black hair was plaited in two long, heavy braids, that fell below her waist, tied with knots of many-colored ribbons ; and on top of her head was set a sort of crown of wampum, made of shell-beads, yellow, purple, white, red, and black, which glittered like jewels in the sun. She wore a sack and skirt of scarlet cloth, richly embroidered in tinsel. From her elbows mmmmmmmmm maaaaaasasasasis^lissi rDMAIDEKS. ara, and she hty chief of to look at — his tribe as »n England's d. She was lall, canning hions of her id was very y thick ; but set of white, imiled. Her ) long, heavy d with knots p of her head un, niade of d, and black, 1. icarlet cloth, I her elbows T- AN INDIAN PRIN0SS8. 46 to her hands, her arms were covered with brace- lets. There were many necklaces around her fat throat ; and several sorts of jewelled rings in her ears. Her feet were small : her moccasins, marvels of sparkling bead-work. These, as well as her dress, were the work of her own hands; for Suitara had spent a year or two at the school of the Ursuline nuns in Quebec, and had, there, learned to sew and embroider beautifully. She had been taught, as well, to speak some French ; and had picked up a good deal of Eng- lish among the young Yankee pupils — ^most of them, little New England girls who had been captured by the Indians. The nuns had tried hard to make a good Cath- olic of the Princess. Once, indeed, she had even gone so far as to obtain her father's permission to be baptized ; but, being of a lazy, selfish nature — a genuine child of the forest— she had drawn back at the last moment, remaining unconverted from her sensualities and superstitions to the end of her school-days. She loved the gentle nuns, however, very dearly in her savage fashion, even iiyshe delighted in their lessons in fancy-work, mlkre tium she did in their instructions in the GItedhism. She sat, now, upon the flat top of a high rock (overlooking the eastern bank of the Detroit %^^ itali ■Hi 46 LOT Leslie's folks. river), stringing beads for a necklace, on a de- sign given her by the Ursuline Superioress. »v/iiie half-dozen young girls sat or squatted around her, helping her with her task, or busy with like work on their own account. Two of these handmaidens were white. The one on her right, who held toward her a big clam- shell filled with many-colored beads, is one of our young friends of Swan Island — Faith Leslie, a plain, substantial, rather ordinary girl of twelve. Her tints were all neutral— grey eyes, dust- colored hair, and a dull complexion. Her little sister, Hope, three years younger, sat on Suitara's left, sorting out some tangled skeins of sewing silk. The rough life among the Indians had not served Hope Leslie as well as it had served her more robust sister. Both had now, for three months, been the slaves of the Indian Princess. They might, in- deed have been sold to a more cruel and brutal mistress; but Suitara had a good deal of the savage in her, for all. She was not only selfish and lazy (as we had said) but wilful and change- able as the wind, and childishly pettish and jealous. .. ' Little Hope, who was a sensitive, nervous child, had suffered sadly in the rude life of an Indian lodge. AN INDIAN PRINCESS. «r ce, on a d©- rioress. or squatted aak, or busy white. The er a big clam- ds, is one of -Faith Leslie, firl of twelve, eyes, dust- lars younger, iome tangled ians had not ad served her ths, been the ley might, in- lel and brutal 1 deal of the ot only selfish il and change- r pettish and nervons child, 9 of an Indian She had grown tall for her age ; she stoojjed at the shoulders, had weak eyes, and was very thin and pale. A constant longing for her mother and her old home seemed to burn, like a live coal, in her little heart, wearing out her strength. Homesickness, fear of her surroundings, and the lack of the bracing salt-breezes of Swan Island, were plainly killing her by inches. The other girls of the group were Indians— none c' them worthy of special notice, except the one who sat opposite Suitara, on a krgo boulder, and who was known as Catharine of the Wyandots. She was a small, brown maiden of strangely beautiful face and form. Dressed in a simple garb of coarse blue flannel, she wore no orna- ments, save a brass rosary-chain around her neck, from which, hung on her bosom, a large crucifix of the same metal. There was a lovely look of m'eekness and purity on the peaceful face of this girl. Her soft, dark eyes, like those of a frightened fawn, were, most of the time, veUed timidly by their long, silken lashes. Altogether, she bore a striking likeness to the picture of the Holy Virgin of Guatfaloupe, im- printed, by a miracle, some two centuries before, on the leathern apron of a poor Mexican Indian. Catharine of the Wyandots (or Hurons, as 48 LOT LKSLIE'S folks. tk they are better known), had been the schoolmate of Sttitara at the convent of the Ursulines ; but, unlike the Princess, she was a papil of their academy for many yep* 3, and became there a fervent, practical Catholic. Returning, at last, to her tribe, she had carried to them the good tidings of salvation ; and had proved, from that time on, the guardian angel of her people. At the request of her father, the chief sachem, a priest had been sent by the famous apostle. Father Charlevoix, to found a mission near Fort Detroit, a mile or so above the Wyandot settlement. The tribe had been Christians, a hundred years before; but had lost the faith through an in- cursion of the fierce Iroquois, who had conquered them in their settlement elsewuere. Suitara was very fond of Catharine. She called her *' Ne mist " or " my elder sister," (as she was a little younger than the Wyandot girl); and very patient and winning was Catharine with the wilful, unbaptized one, who had never known the sweetness and strength of the holy Sacra- ments — hoping to induce her, before long, to become a practical Catholic. The Princess had now been stringing her beads for the tiresome space of fifteen minutes. This was an age to the fickle creature, who was usually restless as a wild bird. »g? ; . - ■■■vmrr msBsmm AN INLIAIi PRINCE88. 4» \ schoolmate lulines; but, pil of their jne there a had carried on ; and had irdian angel her father, . sent by the to found a )0 above the indred years ough an in- d conquered , She called ' (as she was t girl); and ine with the ever known holy Sacra- >re long, to ng her beads tintes. This > was usually She had been chattering away to her girU, while she wrought, and most of her talk was about the strange marvel that had appeared, the night before, in the heavens. The wise ones of the tribe had beheld on the face of the full moon, the images of an Indian hatchet and a bleeding scalp; and drops of rain as red as blood, and smelling strongly of sulphur had fallen in the early morning.' Catharine began to speak some mild words against putting faith in these and other queer signs, dear to the superstitious Princess. She urged that, doubtless, they had their cause in some unknown law of nature. " Hold y *ur tongue, Ne mist ! " pouted Snitara ; "you are as wise as a medicine-man, but you don't know everything. There are ghosts in the forests, and magic signs in the moon and stars, that are far beyond ymir little knowledge. — There I take that, and finish it ! "—and she flung at Catharine the half-woven necklace she had been fingering. " I am going to sing you all a new ^«M<— the./Simy of Suitara f " With a quick turn of her fat hand, she drew over her shoulder, a sort of rude guitar that hung at her back, and Legan to tune the strings. > Both thcM fnska of nature actually occurred at thii point about flw middle of the eytnteenth century. I ii' 50 LOT Leslie's folks. Music was one of her passions, and she showed marked talent for it. " The Song of Suitara," said she, grinning around at the girls, while her stumpy fingers strayed over the strings in a wild, sweet prelude, " is not about myself, but about the one I was named after. She was the sister,— the JVe mha of my great-grandmother. One of the old squaws taught it to me, last night, while ^\ sat at the lodge-door, watching the bloody scalp cross the silver of the moon." With that, the Princess struck the strings bravely; and began to chant in the Ottawa tongue (to a queer, melancholy tune) words, which would be soinething like these in English: Sing of the bright Suitara I Sing of the Indian maid ! The young, the broken-hearted. Who, in her bloom, departed Into the Land of Shade i Hair, like a floating shadow : Eyes, as the starbeams bright; And form like waving willow, Or foam-wreath on the billow, Were hers— her sire's delight I He strove to train his darling To every forest-art. What wonder that her graces, Her sweetest of all faces Won the bravest heart 7 '"^ "f^ [ she showed le, grinning impy fingers veet prelude, le one I was -the Ne miaa le old squaws sat at the alp cross the the strings the Ottawa tune) words, e in English : W; htt AN INDIAN PBINOESS. Not of * dusky warrior, Chief of a swarthy band ; But, heart of a noble ranger, A fair-hair'd, pale-faced stranger. Son of the Saxon land ! Twas in the Moon of Flowers, In Nature's dreamy mood, When star-rays softly quiver Upon the running river, Suitara first was wooed. « O love, sweet love ! " he murmured: " Thy soft eyes turn on me I As swiftly flows the river. The happy, shining river. To mingle with the sia — « So flows my eager spirit, This longing soul of mine, The light and gloom unheeding, Runs swiftly (gladly speeding) To mingle, love, with thine I " And, warbled back Suitara, Warm-blushing in her charms: « As sings the deep sea ever Whene'er the shining river Comes leaping to ite arms ; " E'en so, my fair-hair'd chieiUia, My river strong and free I My soul's deep sea rejoices. And all its myriad voices Are singing glad to thee J " ftl ym 52 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. ' '^1 Thus, was the tender wooing By silver streams begun ; And ere the Moon of Flowers Had spent its blushing hours, Suitara's heart was won. Was won, — but not unheeded By all that dusky tribe, Who, at the council-fire, Had roused her gloomy sire. With bitter jest and gibe. Fierce eyes bad watched the wooing Amid the forcst-shede ; Dark forms had followed, noiseless. With burning rage (yet voiceless}, The pale-face and the maid. The while, the lovers wandered With smiling lip and eye — Beneath the summer heaven, A deadly oath was given ; Tht fair-kair'd cku/mmt tH* t m\ IP -.(, ^ihexiaii^:sS»^.Si I wing less, CHAPTER V. THE YANKEE WOMAN'8 MESSAGE. At this point, the Princess broke off her song- showing signs of strange and strong excitement. She pouted out her thick, red lips, and lowered her heavy brows, until her small eyes glowed under them like tiny sparks of red fire. She seemed to fairly pant and choke in a burst of passionate wrath. Throwing the guitar on the ground, she sprang up, and began to pace to and fro, wringing her hands, and crying out in a loud, mournful voice : " Oh ! hawe, hawe, hawe ! " (or alasl alas ! alas !) with a long, dreary accent on each syllable— as one who laments the dead. Her Indian maids looked slyly at each other, askance, as if to say : " We know what she is crying about, don't we ? " Whether or. not she oaugL^. one of these side- long glances, in transit, it is Lard to say ; but, certain it is, that the daughter of Pontiao sud- denly stopped her mortuary paiyde upon the rocks, caught up her guitar, and slung it around her neck, and, after spitting fiercely at the now frightened maids, bui-st forth afresh into : 68 mm T^ l l^i4l!JiicJIJ P >S WWWIMW WW»!%J". ' :"vw'^^ IJH. I iTTTTM— MM^ .' 64 LOT Leslie's folks. Oh ! sweetly sleeps Suitara ! The night wind scarcely stin ; And, in her magic dreaming, Her lover'3 eyes are beamiug— His hand is clasp'd in hers. ' ^? : Oh ! sw«;etly sleeps Suitara ! But in the forest gloom. No pitying moon is gleaming. When, awful oaths redeeming, Her lover meets his doom ! Ah I ghastly, cold— he lieth Upon a mossy bed. With faintest starlight peeping Upon his dreamless sleeping. The desolate, the dead I The sullen chieftains gather ; — From out the silent grove, They bear him, tiushed forever. Unto the shining river, Wherv ^ st he met his love. Alas ! for sweet Suitara t The sunlight— half-afraid— Its golden finger presses tJpoN her silken tresses. And wakes the sleeping maid. B !'!. ;She rises ng, or with their work, that no one had noticed her approach. She was a tall, homely woman, loose-jointed, and past her first youth. She had a queer, over- grown look in her shabby brown kersey coat and skirt of yellow cotton, which plainly rfiowed her bony ankles, and her large feet in a pair of old, broken shoes. In these days, she might have been mistaken for a fourth-rats bicyclist, about to mount her wheel. But Faith and Hope Leslie had no sooner laid eyes on her plain, honest face, than they ran to her with open arms, crying : " Why, it's Prudence ! It's our own dear old Prudence Skillet!" " Lord love you, children 1 " said the newcomer cordially, as she caught to her flat breast the young things she had nursed in babyhood : " I'm heart-glad to see you again 1 Didn't you tell 'em about me, Catharine of the Wyandots?" (turn- ing to the Indian girl): "Didn't she think it worth while to remark, my pretties, that Pru- dence Skillet of Swan Island had been sold by )ring to her I, who had vandot hut, maids Avere work, that >ose-jointed, queer, over- kersey coat inly diowed in a pair of en mistaken mount her > sooner laid they ran to wn dear old te newcomer ,t breast the hood: "I'm you tell 'em ots ? " (turn- she think it s, that Pru- )een sold by THE YANKEE WOMAU'S MB88AGK. 59 them pesky redskins to her mother, Mistress Tarbucket, for— think of itl— a handful of rib- bons and beads?" " TarbuHy good Prudence," corrected Catharine mildly ; and even the other Indian girls laughed. "Botheration on their heathenish names I" cried the Yankee woman, straightening her cap, which Hope had knocked sideways in her loving caresses: "Isn't one of the old squaws named White-washrhnish i " " Why-wMhi-brooch ! " put in the Princess in a pet: ''Ciell ahe is Catharine's grandmother! Ne misa ! " said she to the Wyandot girl in their own tongue : " what has brought this saucy slave of yours here, to make sport of our people ? " " Never you trouble yourself about it, my gal," replied Prudence with a glance of loving respect at her young Indian mistress : " If this fat little she-bear must know it, your good mother sent me here with a message. An Injin runner has just rushed into the blockhouse, yander. He says lots of strange canoes full of redskins is coming up the river. The best thing you gals can do is to pick up your traps, and hurry back with me to the village ! " Before the last words were out of the speaker's mouth, Suitara had crept to the edge of the cliff, thrown herself flat on her stomach, and leaning forward, peered anxiously up the stream. .J TT mm 60 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. There, sure enough, were the crowded boats rowing swiftly down the river I They were far enough off to make it impossi- ble to see if they carried friends or foes; yet near enough to strike terror to the hearts of the maidens on the rock. Springing again to her feet, the Princess caught Catharine by one hand, Faith Leslie by thn other ; and, followed by the other girls, ran, like a deer, toward the Wyandot village, her guitar rattling at her back, and her long, black braids standing out behind her on the wind, as if they had been wired. Little Hope clung, \ ale and trembling, to Pru- dence Skillet's ann. But the Yankee woman held bravely up her precious burden ; and, as she strode along behind the maidens, she kept muttering texts to cheer her young charge's heart. And, in spite of the threatening peril, the little white girls felt some- what at home once more, as they heard the old familiar voice of their servitor mrirmuring : " The Lord hath chastened me sore, yet He hath not given me over to death. . . . Wait on the I^rd, be of good courage, and He shall strengthen thy heart. Wait, I say, on the Lord ! " i^*^ ^m yded boats I it impossi- p foes; yet jaxts of the le Princess 1 Leslie by r girls, ran, irillage, ber long, black he wind, as ing, to Pru- «rely up her ong behind ts to cheer ipite of the B felt some- lard the old iring: >re, yet He . . Wait id He shall the Lord 1" CHAPTER VI. MARIANNE 8T. ANGE. Let us now go back to that early morning in August, when poor Mistress Leslie dropped down in a faint, close to the door of the St. Ange man- sion in Montreal. Old N'-o-kum and her Indians had long since disappeared. The suburban street was still very quiet, no one being abroad at that hour, save tradesmen, or a few pious souls hurrying along to early Mass. None of these passed close to the spot where the poor woman lay, all in a heap, upon the pavement. At last. Lot Leslie came out of the baker's shop, and was about to fill with loaves of fresh bread, the little cart, which he, daily, trundled about the city, serving hie master's customers. His eye fell upon the idle scrubbing bucket and mop ; and then wandered to the dark object lying on the other side of the street. He had missed his wife from their room over the stable; but supposed she was busy with her 61 69 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. mistress in tiie kitchen, or occupied, as was her wont, before breakfast, in cleaning the front steps. Now, running across the street, he saw, with horror, that the senseless bundle on the side-walk wau really his poor companion in misery. Her head had been cut by her fall, and her face wan covered with blood from the wound. Lot's piercing cries soon brought out the frightened baker, Jean Martin, from his shop ; and between them, the men raised the uncon- scious woman, and carried her back to her room in the stable. Before noon, the poor creature was raving in a high fever. Her many sorrows and losses, coupled with the morning's shock, and the injury to her head in that cruel fall upon the street, had brought on an attack of brain-fever. For many weeks, poor Hope Leslie hovered between life and death. Her mistress, an excellent Catholic French- woman, nursed her with great charity and de- votion ; and the baker kindly allowed Lot many a free moment to watch beside her bed. Neither of them knew that, on the day, when the poor woman was at her worst, a splendid carriage rolled up to the door of Louis St. Ange'a house, and stopped there — the glossy white fpwmmmmm 1, as was her ig the front he saw, with the side-walk isery. fall, and her he wound, ight out the om his shop ; d the unoon- i to her room u raving in a coupled with y to her head \d brought on «slie hovered holio French- arity and de- ired Lot many bed. he day, when »t, a splendid uis St. Ange's glossy white { L MARIANNE ST. ANOE. 63 hones, in their gold-mounted harness, stamping the ground and tossing their haughty heads, as if eager to be off again. Presently, the house-door opened, and Monsieur and Madame St. Ange came out, richly dressed, followed by Margot, carrying in her arms the adopted child. Little Love vtas beautiful as a picture in the exquisite white robe, cloak and cap of the dead Marianne. Her cheeks were like fresh roses after the morning bath, and her big, black eyes sparkled with joy, as well as with the love for her new parents. When the party were seated in the carriage, the liveried coachman and footmen sprang to their places, and away pranced the horses to the parish church of Notre Dame. Here, little Love was carried up to the altar of the Blessed Virgin, where the priest in waiting baptized her for the first time in her little life, giving her the name of Marianne St. Ange. Her new parents knew her by no other, as the baby was too young to speak plainly the words " Love Leslie " ; and old thieving N'-o-kum either did not know, or did not care to jeveal the name of her infant captive. Strange to say, the priest who baptized little Love had no sooner finished the ceremony, than he was called away to the bake-house of Jean la mmmm tmm ^■i^,^ If Till i-r.r-Vi---"fAi]in-iir-tiyirtniiikiir-'Tf:;^i;^^^i^"i^"m%-''rff- 64 LOT Leslie's folks. ': 1 Martin, to attend there a sick servant, believed to be dying of brain-fever. The beautiful charity of the baker's wife had deeply touched the heart of poor Mistress Leslie, and opened for her the door to the Light of God, the true Faith of Christ. When reason began to return to her poor racked brain, feeling, (from her deadly weakness) that death might be very near, and realizing that she knew little or nothing of God or the things of God, she listened willingly to the kind words and simple instructions of Madame Martin, and at last consented to see the priest. Lot Leslie was not altogether satisfied ynth this arrangement ; but he was very fond of his wife, and very grateful to the Martins for all their kindness to her. Therefore, he made no objections when the sick woman expressed a desire to be baptized. As he could not bring himself, however, to go into the room while the priest was there, he took hit pipe and his cap, and went out for a stroll in ' the streets, until "all the fuss" (as he called it) should be over. In this way, he came to pass by a ma^ificent carriage and horses, with liveried outriders, that dashed around the corner ^w he tumfid it, and stopped in frdnt of a big house near by. Lot wa« too full of his own thoughts to notice the people in the carriage. i.>^*..i-,wrai^''*.l MARIANNE ST. ANGE. 66 int, believed ir's wife had stress Leslie, light of God, ton began to ig, (from her )e very near, ir nothing of I willingly to IS of Madame the priest, atisfied with fond of his rtins for all as when the be baptized, •wever, to go ;here, he took for a stroll in i he called it) i. magnificent utriders, that burned it, and rby. ^hts to notioe I Even if he had looked at the elegant gentle- man and lady who got out of the carriage, or at the neat maid who followed them, carrying a child, he would hardly have known the beautiful, richly-dressed baby in her arms to be his own lit- tle lost Love whom he had never seen wearing anything liner than a gingham dress and a cot- ton cap. The life that began that day for his baby-girl was like the life of a little princess in a fairy- tale. Back of the elegant house that had now become her home, stretched a large, lovely, old garden, radiant with beds of sweet-scented flow- ers, and cool with fountains and fish-ponds. At the end of its winding gravel-paths, among the swings and the rustic arbors, stood the pretty playhouse of the dead Marianne. In it, was all that a child-heart could desire — a parlor, dining-room and kitchen on the first floor : a sitting-room and bedroom on Ihe second. Heal velvet carpets were on the floors ; real lace cur- tains at the glass windows ; while every French toy that could please a baby was to be found in tbiiwonderf ul little house, now belonging to Love. Margot's manied siiter was brought &U Uie vn,f ttdiai QH6h66 to bd ^r HxUM. 'C6\6tt6 Gftrd« ./as her nam6. She was a y6tLi^ WiA6W, Wltb CfA€ littld girl, vrhom ihe f«tehdd with hef to Montreal. i 66 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. F • The coming of Colette's child was a great joy to the new Marianne. She was a year or two older than Love, and was called Rose-Marie. All day long, the two little ones were out with Colette in the beautiful garden, playing among the flowers, feeding the fish in the ponds, or keep- ing house beside the fountain, beneath the waving grape-vines. When they tired of their play, or when the colder days began to come, they made merry in the big, warm, sunny nursery, next to Madame St. Ange's rooms, where the closets were over- flowing with foreign toys ; and Madame always came in each afternoon, to drink a cup of warm milk, and eat a bit of sweet cake with the chil- dren at their own dainty little table, sparkling with silver, glass, and French china. Little Love soon learned to bless herself prop- erly, and say her baby-prayers. She had her small prayer-stool beside her new mamma's in the great bed-chamber, and her tiny velvet haa- sock close to Madame's easy chair, where she re- cited her scraps of catechism in French, and lis- tened, in time, to the loveliest stories of Blessed Lady and the saints, told to her by Madame, each n%ht, before Colette came to carry her off to bed in the adjoining closet. On Sundays and feast-days, she went to Mass with her parents in the grand family-ooaoh: ; i»..0iA'>A.>M iA=lt J* !>i.ir.^'->j I a great joy year or two e-Marie. rere out with lying among »nds, or keep- h the waving or when the ade merry in to Madame 8 were over- dame always cup of warm ivith the chil- ble, sparkling herself prop- She had her mamma's in ly velvet haa- where she re- ench, and lis- ies of Blessed Madame, each her off to bed went to Mass family-ooaoh: MARIANNE 8T. ANOE. 67 gravely crossed herself with holy water at the church-door (as the others did) ; and knelt with little Rose-Marie in front of the magnificent, lighted altars, saying her beads upon a little golden rosary that her papa had given her for her own. All this time, she never knew that, just across the street from her elegant home, her real father and mother were living in the stable-room of Jean Martin, the baker. Every morning. Lot Leslie pushed his little bread-cart to Mr. St. Ange's door, and handed out the warm, white, French loaves and rolls to Mr. St. Ange's waiter-boy. He brought, in this way, the very bread to the rich merchant's table, yet never dreamed that his own dear little daughter was feasting on it in that great house, as its most cherished child. Mistress Leslie's sickness had lasted for many months; and after the dreadful fever left her, she remained so weak and helpless, that her mind and memory seemed altogether gone from her. She would sit by the hour with her thin hands folded in her lap, and her wild eyes staring blankly at a spot on the tiled floor— saying no word to either husband or friends. This state of things went on for more than a year. Poor L<*t had given up all hope of ever seeing 68 LOT Leslie's folks. his wife a strong and sensible woman again, when, one morning, some fifteen months after her meet- ing with 2i'-o-kum and her fall upon the street. Mistress Leslie began to speak a few broken words, and show signs of returning memory. Her husband often caught her muttering to herself ; and the words she jabbered were always the same: "Little Love! — old N'-o-kum! — sold my baby 1 — big house across the street I " Lot began to study over these words (so often repeated) wondering what they meant — wonder- ing if they had anything to do with his wife's fainting-fit, more than a year before, and the al- most fatal illness that had followed. Gradually, as the poor shattered mind of the sick woman regained its balance, she began to recall the past, and to piece together the last broken threads in the tragedy of her life. After a weary while, she was able to tell her patient husband all she had seen and heard, that August day, when the squaw, N'-o-kum, had given up their ovrn little Love to the merchant's maid for a handful of silver and a few shining trinkets. The painful story almost cost the poor woman a relapse. Lot Leslie, as he listened to it, began to doubt whether the things she spoke of had really aver happened, or whether they were not j'art of her again, when, ter her meet- on the street, few broken memory, muttering to . were always D-kum 1 — sold eetl" jfds (so often mt — wonder- ith his wife's e, and the al- 1 mind of the she began to ither the last it life. le to tell her id heard, that !7'-o-kum, had be merchant's a few shining ) poor woman egan to doubt ad really aver ot j'art of her MAKIANKE ST. ANGE, C9 mad ravings— part of the feverish dreams of her long-wandering mind. In spite of hvaiself, however, he took to watch- ing the doors and windows of ihe merchant's house. The blood would rush to his head, and his heart stand still, whenever he saw a lovely, little familiar face looking out through the lace curtains, or the graceful form of a richly-dressed child upon the marble steps. But, sometimes, there were ^m>o pretty little girls going out from the great house, with their stylish white-capped bonne. Then, poor Lot would sigh, and rush back into the bake-shop, sorely puzzled and troubled. Who is he—the slave of an humble baker— that he should dare to claim either of those elegantly-dressed children for his own: or pre- sume *« question their nurse, who bore herself with such a grand, proud air ? In the second spring of her captivity, poor Mistress Leslie caught a heavy cold which, (still weak, as she was, from her long illness), carried her oflf in a few days. She died a happy, peaceful desth, receiving all the last rites of the Church, and lovingly waited on until the end by her devoted mistress. With her dying breath, she repeated the story of the Indian squaw's having sold little Love to the servant of the rich merchant; and urged » I a HI ihr' ■ riiMimiaiiii-riiiriirirfmfnrfil'rath'r-^i 70 LOT Leslie's folks. upon Lot to recover the child, and to join the true Church, which makes death so sweet and welcome a guest to its faithful children. Thus, patient and resigned to all her losses and crosses, kissing the crucifix tenderly, and putting her trust firmly in Christ and His Blessed Mother, the good, suffering woman passed peace- fully away to her reward, and was buried, in due* time, in the nearest Catholic graveyard, far away from her early home and friends. The day after her funeral, when poor Lot was sitting alone, sadly enough, in the bake-shop. keep- ing watch w^hile his master was at supper, a strange man with a squint and a hair-lip cme into the shop. He wanted a couple of buns and a cup of coffee which could always be had at that hour at Jean Martin's. The stranger talked a good deal, as he ate and drank; and the sound of his tongue was homely and sweet to Leslie's ears. It was the voice of a brother Yankee. He, too, recognized a countryman in poor Lot; and, as they chatted freely together, it came out that the newcomer was an agent from the New England colonies, sent out to find and bring back all the captives he might discover in Canada. His name wad Wheelwright. In spite of his sinister looks, he seemed to be a genial, pleasant- MARIANNE ST. ANGE. 71 to join the I sweet and en. er losses and and putting His Blessed )assed peace- a buried, in aveyard, far Is. toor Lot was e-shop, keep- )er, a strange "Tie into the and a cup of that hour at is he ate and I was homely kee. lan in poor together, it n agent from t to find and tt discover in spite of his lial, pleasant- mannered man, so that Lot soon told him his whole sad story. He shed tears as he described the sickness and death of his wife ; and the agent's interest in the tale increased, as Leslie repeated the dead mother's story of the sale of her baby by the Indians to the rich merchant, Louis St. Ange. «* Leave this matter to me, friend Leslie," said Wheelwright with a grin, at the end of their talk. " Strike me dead, if we don't soon have you and your little gal safe on the way to the Colonies. But, mum's the word— for here comes your mas- ter, if I don't mistake ! " Sure enough, there was Jean Martin, back from his supper, a short, burly, good-humored man, whose rosy, smiling face bespoke him at peace with all the world. His red cheek suddenly paled, however, and his good humor was rather rudely disturbed, when he learned the agent's business. He was much attached to Lot ; and he felt that his kindness to him and his dead wife deserved some practical return. But Wheelwright was wily and sweet-tongued. He offered so large a ransom for the Yankee slave, that the baker yielded at last, and con- sented to let Lot go, provided he agreed to wait a day or two until a man could be gotten to take his place. ' I Mixj^mn^iJ'/' ^^.IM&Wl^ltA^a^' ra Lot Leslie's folks. This being arranged to please both parties, Wheelwright took his departure, with a gly wink and a parting whisper to Lot : " Courage, man, and a stiff upper lip I A glass all round — if we don't soon have your little gal safe out of the clutches of these French papists ! " The next day, the head-gardener at Mr. St. Ange's had a new man to help him trim grape- vines and set out some spring plants. One of the under-gardeners chanced to be sick, and in his place, came this stranger who had a squint and a hare-lip, but whose tialk w^as very pleasant and winning, in spite of its Yankee twang. As the two men worked among the arbors with their ladders and shears, little Love and her playmate, Eose-Marie, skipped merrily through the garden paths, and began their daily game of housekeeping in the pretty playhouse beside the fountain. Colette Garde, in her white apron and cap, sat knitting on the stone bench, close at hand. It was not long before the keen-witted man with the hare-lip got to know from the bonnets constant calls and cautions to the little ones, which was her own child, and which, the adopted daughter of the rich merchant. Fortune favored the plans of the Yankee agent. • ^ ■l»^ f«- both parti«0, ith a sly wink lip ! A glass ^our little gal inch papists ! " er at Mr. St. m trim grape- ced to be sick, ;er who had a ialk was very at its Yankee ng the arbors ) Love and her irrily through daily game of use beside the >n and cap, sat at hand, en-witted man om the honne'g be little ones, :h, the adopted Yankee agent. I MAKIANN£ 8T. ANGK. 7d A message to the head-gardener, from some of his men, took him away, before long, to a distant {)art of the large garden. Wheelwright, while tying up one of the vines to its trellis, made a great outcry that he had found a bird's nest full of young ones on top of the arbor. The little girls, now some five or six ^ o'd, ran at once to the foot of the ladder, s.\J. b^ ;:ed to see the lovely sight. The agent refused to let little Lev > u )uni the ladder; but helped Rose-Marie to c.'i< a few rounds, when suddenly, having his ba^k to Co- lette, he tilted the ladder; and t '•/>; «'« child fell screaming to the ground. It was not a bad fall; but Colette sprang, like a flash, to her darling, and caught her up in a fright. She began to run toward the great house, kissing and soothing Rose-Marie, who still sobbed and shrieked from the pain of her bruises. All had turned out as Wheelright had guessed it would. The mother-love in the heart of Colette had made her, in her unexpected moment of trial, forget the care of. her foster-child. Little Love stood alone by the arbor, pale and trembling, quite at the mercy of this dreadful stranger, who squinted at her horribly, and had his upper Hp slit clean up to his nose. LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. But the agent made the best of his golden op- portunity. " Poor little gal ! " said he soothingly, in rather bad French, but still in his sweet-tongued fash- ion : ' Nurse thinks a heap more of Rose-Marie than she does of Marianne. Strike me dead, if mamma would treat her dear little gal that way 1 She was at the garding-gate as I came in to-day. Want to know what she said ? " The little "gal" shook like a leaf— but stood mute as a lamb before its 8laugh*;erer. " Why, she asked me to fetch you to her in an hour's time. What for, my pretty ? What else could it be but to. take you out for a ride ? Gra- cious me ! " he cried, looking at a big old silver watch that he drew from his fob, " it's just the hour now ! Come along, dearie. We haven't a minute to lose. We'll find mamma in the car- riage, right outside the garding gate I " And catching up his hat and coat from the grass, and taking little Love by the hand, he hurried the frightened child through the open gate, and made off with her down a narrow, back alley. lis golden op- igly, in rather bongued fash- if Rose-Marie e me dead, if ttle gal that ) as I came in lid?" af — but stood er. u to her in an ? What else a ride ? Gra- big old silver , " it's just the We haven't a na in the car- «1" soat from the the hand, he ugh the open I narrow, back CHAPTER VII. THB ATTACK ON THE BLOCKH0U8B. When we last saw the Indian Princess Sui- tara, she was racing, as fast as her fat legs would carry her, along the river road to the Wyandot village. ., t? uu With Catharine Tarbuki on one side, Faith Leslie on the other, with Prudence and Uttle Hope bringing up the rear, the Princess and her suite Hed before the approach of the strange sav- ages in the boats, who, for all they knew to the contrary, might be their enemies, the dreaded Mohawks. As all ran breathlessly along, Suitara met a young Indian coming alone from a bird-hunt, with a string of quaU dangling from his shoul- This was her elder brother, Mescoh-KiniUo (or the Red Snake). . *^m»tess! (my elder brother!)" cnedshe: « our enemiee are coming down tho river ! It is too late to return to the castle with my maids. We go now, with Catherine Tarbuki to the block- house of the French and Wyandots." 76 I i ■«^ 76 LOT Leslie's folks. " What is that to me ?" asked the son of Pon- tiao, with a scowl. " It is everything to me ! " cried the Princess, Imughtily. " You will find my canoe in the cove below Suitara's rock. Take it ; row quickly to the camp-fires of the Ottawas, and rouse the tribe to our defence ! " " Our father, the great Pontia-j, is away with his braves at Lake George ! " grunted Red Bnake, sis he tried the keen edge of his scalping-knife with his thick thumb. " But, are you not his eldest son ? " urged Sui- tara, cunningly : " are you not the lion of the Ot- tawas, the star of the council, the Red Sn^^ke of the woods — fearless and venomous? Summon, I beg of you, Wahitca Mukmu (the White Eagle) " — and the girl's brown cheek flushed darkly — " summon all the warriors of our people, and bid them sing their war-songs, and dance their war- dance, for the daughter of their great chief is in danger. You and White Eagle must lead them here, at once, to her rescue. Quethepeh, Ni steta, quethepeh! (make haste, elder brother, make haste I)" By th« time the girls reached the Wyandot village, All it* p6<^le had taken r^ftige hi tike blookhotise of the French t«Ad«A^ ^r IVeiitfh and Indians in thdsd days, made doiflinoa d&use. The blockhouse was very big and strong. It ^p s son of Pon- the Princess, « in the cove •w quickly to id roase the is away with d Red Bnake, icalping-knife ' " urged 8ui- ion of the Ot- Ked Sni^ke of Summon, I ^hite Eagle)" hed darkly — lople, and bid ice their war- eat chief is in ost lead them vpehy Ni ate«», rother, make the Wyandot r^ftige iii tbe B, ^r ftenA ommon d&use. id strong. It THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCKHOUSE. 77 was built of enormous logs. The upper story projected over the lower, so that the garrison could fire with ease upon any attacking party. The roof was of shingle, and therefore, in dan- ger from the fire arrows of a native foe. But, the worst peril arose from the site of the blockhouse. On one side of it was a small lake (long since disappeared) ; on the other, the De- troit river. Unfortunately, the bank of the stream rose, at this point, in a high, steep ridge, within forty feet of the blockhouse, giving a natural cover to en- emies assailing it. If they even failed, thus pro- tected, on the riverside, they were sure of a chance on the bank of the lake. Mary Tarbuki, the mother of Catharine, waited for her daughter, and the other maidens, at the door of the fortress. She was a small, slender woman, not much past thirty, of singular beauty, and of such gentle, quiet ways, that the tribe called her " Omi-mee, " or the Dove. A worthy mother, was she, of so saintly a maiden as Catharine of the Wyandots. Tl^tix home, poor as it was, was an abode of siuA fncttf parity, and simple holiness, that Piti- deaM fildllM, tfaair tlaim, (albdit she retaiii«d a godd deal of the bigotry of her early Pnritan associates), regarded her mistresses with tender 1 0r*^^paim ^ '•mM'mtfwn 78 LOT LESLIE 8 FOLKS. m\ :| i, i love ar»d reverence, and almost began to think that the religion which made such saints out of savages must be the one established by Christ Himself. She now watched them closely, as she helped them fill the water buckets, and pass them up to the sentries at the lookout on the roof ; and her heart grew calm and full of trust in God, as she saw Mary and Catharine cross themselves quietly in the midst of the work, or press the crucifix that each wore upon her neck-chain, lovingly to their lips. Both mother and daughter never ceased to cheer the young white girls, who, remembering Swan Island, clung together, pale and trembling. They never ceased to calm the poor, fussy Princess who fretted and chafed without pause, constantly running to the long, narrow loop- holes, ostensibly, to see if Red Snake and his warriors were approaching to the rescue. The girls all knew that she was watching less for her brother, than for Wabisca Mukusti, the half-breed. He was known as the White Eagle, because of his fair skin, which he took from his white fa- ther; and Suitara had promised to marry him before he went away, that autumn, with the rest of the braves, to the hunting-grounds of the Ottawas. igan to think saints out of led by Christ as she helped 5S them up to ■oof ; and her n God, as she selves quietly s the crucifix n, lovingly to ^er ceased to remembering nd trembling. 8 poor, fussy ithout pause, narrow loop- nake and his escue. watching less Mukusu, the le, because of his white fa- o marry him with the rest mnds of the THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCKHOUSE. 79 She hoped that White Eagle's courage tHiA skill, in helping her brother, on this occasion, to rescue her from the siege of the blockhouse, might win the consent of the great Pontiac to their marriage. He had all along refused the hand of his daughter to a half-breed — having an innate scorn for the whites. Meanwhile, the canoes of the strange Indians had been lost sight of on the river. With the cunning of their race, they had guided their boats into the most hidden curves and thickly- wooded windings of the eastern littoral, so that they reached at last, unobserved, the foot of the ridge, facing the blockhouse. Their chief was our old friend, Haukimah: and with him, in the leading canoe, were Tim- othy Grindstone and little Wilson Leslie. It was not the custom of the Caughnewagas to take with them to battle so young a boy as Wilson. But, apart from the tribal legend that controlled his fate, the little fellow had shown himself so brave, so sharp-witted, so manly — so worthy, in short, of the dead son, whose place ho was supposed to fill — that the chief not only dressed him as a warrior at an age when other boys of his years were running about the camp naked, but carried him with him everywhere, ab a sort of mascot. Stealthily crawling, like oats, under oover of 80 LOT Leslie's folks. the high, bank, the Caughnewagas drew near, in full force, to the blockhouse. The traders and the Wyandots knew nothing of their approach, until the horrible yell of their enemies burst upon their ears. They were close to the dry ditch, in front of the fortress, before a gun was fired from the upper-ramparts. Then, Haukimah and his men dropped into the trench, and from that shelter, fired at every loophole, or threw burning arrows, or fire-balls of pitch against the wooden walls. Some of them puUeu down a small outhouse, and made the timbers into a breast-work, behind which they screened themselves, as they pushed forward to the fight. Others crouched behind the steep riv»>r-ridge, and fired at their ease, set- ting in flames the wooden roof of the blockhouse. The traders rapidly extinguished the red blaze with the water from the women's buckets. The horrid outcries of the attacking savages, the smoke, the rattle of guns, and the constant leaping up in various quarters of long tong aoc of fire—made the place seem, for the time, a hvi quarter of the infernal regions. Timothy and little Willy were in the thick of the fight, close to the heels of Haukimah, when the bright eyes of the boy discovered a big com- pany of Indians sneaking up in the direction of the fort from the woody banks of the lake. THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCKHOUSE. 81 drew near, in traders and eir approach, les burst upon ) dry ditch, in van fired from >pped into the red at every or fire-balls lall outhouse, work, behind i they pushed )uched behind their ease, set- be blockhouse. 1 the red blaze )uckets. eking savages, the constant >ng tongaov of le time, a hcc n the thick of ukimah, when red a big com- le direction of .' ;!i 82 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. water as she ran. " Ne miss, ne goos tow / {ei der sister, I am afraid 1) " " Art thou sorry, dear, for all the sins of thy life?" v/hispered the angel of the Wyandots, bending her lovely, gentle face close to t'-.e dark, troubled visage of her friend. " Yes, N'e miss, sorry from the bottom of my heart ! " gasped poor Suitara. "Dost thou believe in God the lathar, God the Son, God the Holy Ghovt ? Thou knowest aU the truths of the Eoly v^atholio Church, Suitara," hurried on Catkarivia as she saw a strange, awful look coming intc, tl:e dying girl's glazing eyes: "Doiit tliou firmly believe all those truths we wore taught by Sister Ursula at school?" "All— all, JVe ««..»/•' gr<)\n id tLe Princess, tightening her lold vpos her friend's hand, as if ^he would fain t^ike her with her down the dark, r.nk io\'n pathway she iiad. begun to tread — \\'luob i( , she knew not whether. " Theii, wilt thoQ be ba^Jtized ? " asked Cathar- ine, " and go in thine innoceni* to heaven ? " " Yes, to heaven— to heaven ! " murmured the Princess faintly ; and, while the sweet, old words of her childhood's prayer at the nunnery came back to her lips : " Jesm, Mttom of my latliar, God iiou knowest >lio Church, she saw a I dying girl's believe all ber Ursula at lie Princess, 's hand, as if v at the St. her tastes riven from land home, WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 93 No natural affection, no instinct of blood, now stirred in her breast at the tears and caresses of her poor, disappointed father. His sentimental emotion, coupled with the proud indifference of the midget, seemed to irri- tate Wheelwright beyond control. " Don't set snivellin' there ! " he snarled to Lot, as he jumped into the wagon : " but wrap the brat in a blanket, and lay her down among the straw. A lusty specimen, she is ! Drat her I give me the lines ! " — and with a smart crack of the whip, the Canadian ponies pricked up their ears, shook their rough manes, and trotted away with their burden up the road by the St. Lawrence river. It was a long and weary journey to the town of Three Rivers. There, several other New Eng- land captives, whom the Yankee agent had either bought or stolen from their French masters, were waiting for him to convey them home to the col- onies. Several times, he halted by the way to refresh his horses, and buy food for the party, as well as *' sweeties " and toys for the little girl. With these, he coaxed her along, telling her that a relation of her French father lived at Three Rivers ; and that, after spending a few days with his children, she should be brought safely back to her home in Montreal. ' Having been fooled by him once before, little 94 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. Love did not put much faith in Wheelwright's statements or promises, but hard luck, and vary- ing experiences bad sharpened her wits, and made her precociously politic. She had now sense enough to keep quiet in try- ing circumstances, nursing her dolls and eating her candy, while she cuddled close to Leslie's side, with the innate feeling, poor child 1 that he was kinder, and more to be trusted than the agent. On the road. Wheelwright heard of one or two other captives, along the St. Lawrence, whom he concluded to ransom or rescue as quickly as possible. Accordingly, wheu the big inn at Three Rivers was reached at last, he left Lot and his little daughter in the care of the innkeeper and his wife, and hurried back, the next day, to the de- liverance of the other white slaves. The inn, Vagneau d'or (or the Golden Lamb), was very full, just then, of traders and released captives. As the latter were poor and unable to pay for their keep, it was the custom of the place to give them work in the kitchen, or around the stables, so that they might not eat their bread in idleness — until such time as Wheelwright sfaoidd return to carry them off to New England. Thus it fell out, that Lot LesUe, on hi« arrival WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 95 elwrighfs and vary- andmade aiet in try- i,nd eating bo Leslie's i I that he than the of one or nee, whom quickly as uree Rivera 1 his little er and his , to the de- len Lamb), nd released ) to pay for lace to give the stables, I in idleness oidd return 1 his arrrral at the Golden Lamb, was set to choppmg wood and fetching water for the kitchen wenches ; and, as little Love soon discovered that the horrid man with the hare-Up had again told her a Ue, and that the innkeeper (if he were indeed a cousin of her French father— which she already doubted—), had certainly no Uttle children for her to play with, the smaU maid was left very much to her- self and her own devices. A favorite fairy-tale she had heard, long ago, at bedtime, from Nuree Colette, often came to her mind, as she sat on the sunny step of the inn, rocking her doll upon her knee. It was the story of a little prinjess, who was once stolen from her father's palace, and carried off by bad fairies to an ogre's castle. But, the castle gate being left conveniently open, one morning, the little princess escaped from the gar- den (where she was bemg fattened into a deUcious tid-bit for the ogre's table), and made her way into the public road. She walked a long, long whUe in the dust and beat of a summer's day, ready to faint with fa- tigue and fright; but, after awhile, a golden chariot drawn by milk-white horses, came rolUng toward her, along the road. " ^ It stopped close to the Uttle runaway, and the door was opened by a fairy footman in a Uv«ry of pale blue and silver lace. Out, popped a lovely mm ^ •6 LOT LESLIE'S TOLKS. little lady in a trailing cloak of whitest minever, over a royal purple brocade, sparkling with dia- monds. A crown of gold and brilliants was on her charming head, and a silver wand in her tiny, white-gloved hand. This was the princess's fairy godmother. She had been on a visit to Queen Mab at the time of her godchild's abduction, and was only now returning after a delightful sojourn at the court. She touched the runaway with her wand; and at once, her dusty rags were changed into a robe of rose-pink satin, covered with jewels ; her coarse shoes became pink velvet slippers studded with pearls; and the fairy godmother, whirling her into the shining coach, drove her back, splendid and triumphant, to her father's palace, where she lived ever afterward in peace and plenty, while the ogre died unhappy and hungry. A bright thought came suddenly to little Love, sitting alone upon the sunny doorstep. « Why couldn't /run away like Pri/n^ceM Bdls- hdUf' mused she: "why couldn't I find my way back, like he», to my own dear home ? " Every one was busy in the inn, and around it. Lot Leslie had just turned the corner 6f the path fr6m the great old well, carrying his buckets 6f water to the back kitchen. No human eye was WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 97 it minever, with dio- 'as on her her tiny, ther. Mab at the i was only inm at the wand ; and into a robe her coarse added with hirling her sk, splendid 3, where she ienty, while > little Love, ep. m4ie«» BdU- I find my lome?" & around it. df the path s buckets 6f lan eye was watching tiie little fearless girl. She drew closer the old black cape on her shoulders, tied tighter the strings of her garden hat, and trotted off alone down the road. The Princest Belle-belle had started again upon her travels. But, instead of the old-time fairy godmother in ermine and jeweled brocade, a very different sort of deliverer was, that mo- ment, driving to meet the runaway. It was a bright, spring day. There was still some snow on the roads, and in the shady spots; but the sun shone gloriously, and a soft wind was blowing from the south. The trees showed a faint hint of green; and, here and there, a stray bird twittered among the branches. Little Love trudged bravely along, humming to herself brokenly, in baby fashion, some verses of an old French cantiqtie to Mary, Queen of Heaven, which may be rendered thus in English : - Blessed are we, .he children of a Mother Who, in her grace surpasses all ; Hasten, then haste, with gladness to her altar i There, at her feet, in meekness, fitlL . . . « Slowly the winter faded fjrtmi die mpMtain, Leaving the streans atl chainless, free : Bnds of the meadows, waters of the fonnli/n. All are waking, Mother, to thee I" 98 LOT LESLIE'S FOtKS. The child had just begun to sing the last stanza : " We, too, will praise thee, sweet and sUinleu Mother, We will unite with flow'r and bird, And, round thine altar : thro" all the sacred seasons, Shall Uys of thy glory be heard!" when, looking back over her shoulder, to make sure of her safety, she beheld Lot Leslie come to the inn door, and, with one swift, wild glance about him, plunge madly after her down the road. little Love crossed herself devoutly (as she had been taught by Madame to do, in moments of danger), and broke into a frightened run. She saw a dark vehicle coming rapidly towards her from the other direction. Could it be the chariot of the fairy god- mother? Would the lovely little lady descend from it, in her furs and jewels, and touch her with her silvery wand ? Alaal as the vehicle drew nearer, she saw it was only a shabby sleigh. In it, was an ugly old squaw, driven by a young Indian sanop, who whooped loudly as he discovered Lot making chase for his little daugh- ter, who was striving with all her speed to escape him. Quick as lightning, th9 old squaw leaned over ' 'WM the last iMother, aaont, r, to make ie come to ild glance down the fcly (as she n moments id run. lly towards fairy god- dy descend touch her she saw it iven by a Dudly as he ttle daugh- d to escape leaned over WHAT JIAPI'KNED AT THREE RIVERS. 00 the side of the sleigh, caught Love from the ground to a seat beside her, and cried out to the young Indian to turn his horse about, and drive like the wind. In less time than it takes to tell it, the savages were dashing along the road to Quebec, bearing the white child far away from her distracted father. Old N'-o-kum (for it was she) was well aware of the value of her prize. She knew the little girl to be the adopted daughter of the great merchant; and she was sure Louis St. Ange would pay a rich ransom to the one who restored the child to Madume's arms. The Indians of those days often stole away captives they had themselves sold to the Cana- dians, in order to extort presents for their re- turn, from their French masters, to whom they had grown either precious or useful. Therefore, the old squaw smiled kindly upon poor little Love, who was shedding silent tears of fright and disappointment. It was all so different from the story of Prin- cess BeUe-helle^ No lovely robe of pink satin covered with jewels; no pink velvet slippers studded with pearls t She was still in her torn and dirty clothes ; and this ugly old woman who held fast to her, must surely be the sister of the ogre who oar- 100 urr Leslie's folrs. ried off BelU-bdle. In spite of all her tears and trouble, however, she fell asleep, after awhile, euddled down under the strong-smelling buffalo robes, with her head in N'-o-kum*s lap. And thus, sleeping heavily, and dreaming broken dreams of Madame and Margot, Colette and Rose- Marie, with wild interludes of being chased by Wheelwright and Lot Leslie, the poor little crea- ture knew not when the sleigh had stopped ; but awoke, next morning, to find herself in the In- dian mission at Lorette. She cried bitterly while N'-o-kum gave her a plentiful breakfast of boiled hominy and maple syrup. ' She missed the white rolls and toothsome jel- lies — the damask, silver, and crystal of her Mont- real breakfast table; and she begged the old woman, with many a winning caress, to take her back to her pretty mamma. But the wily squaw would only grunt from time to time : " Awis wabank / (after to-mor- row,)" or ^^Panimor—jxmima! (by and by, by and by 1)" Seeing that the child still kept on sobbing and grieving, K '-o-kum took her out into the streets of the Indian village, where the savages flocked around her, and tried to pacify and please her. She was such a pretty child with her big, black eyes and clear pink and white skin that the c tears and T awhile, ig buffalo tp. And Ig broken and Rose- chased by ittle crea- )ped; but in the In- pive her a ftnd maple hsome jel- her Mont- )d the old o take her runt from er to-mor- ad by, by bbing and ;he streets es flocked Bse her. her big, a that the WHAT HAPPENED AT THKKK UIVKK8. 101 Indians never tired looking at her. It was one of their delights to catch up her long, soft, red curls, and (Miss them through their fingers. If Love had been older and wiser she might have had some terrible fears and suspicions of their scalping-knives, at these moments. But, " ignorance is bliu " oftentimes, and the little girl only noticed that none of the females of the tribe had red hair like her own. She supposed that that was what made her ringlets attractive to these queer peo- ple, who brought their sticks of charcoal, and drew pictures of deers, wolves, bears and flsbe* on her soiled white skirt. When they proceeded to paint her fair oheeki in the Indian fashion, she cried aloud with n- sentment ; and no one could quiet her, until a boy of ten, or so, ran up, and rubbed the yelloir paint from her soft cheek with a ooroer of bJ» blanket. This boy was then given her for a {^ymato. There was something about him thai bad drawn her to. him from the first moment isbe saw him. He was almost as fair as herself, yet be wmt dressed like a little Indian chief. He won a ruffled shirt, leggings trimmed mik Imi^ WMt many-colored ribbons, and * bandioin« pUf f4 102 LOT Leslie's folks. embroidered moccasins. On his head, he wore an otter-skin cap, with a tall bunch of scarlet plumes in its front. A handsomer, or more manly, little fellow it would have been hard to find, with his bright, dark eyes and curling auburn hair. He was as supple as a reed, and as straight as an arrow. Very kind and gentle, he was, to little Love. Taking her by the hand, he led her away from the other Indians to the best-looking house in the village, standing close to a large, frame building, on top of which was a big yellow cross. This last was the Roman Catholic chapel of St. Anthony—for the tribe of St. Francis was a Catholic one, converted to Christianity, many years before, by the Franciscan Fathers, known as the " Recollects.''^ The mission was, at present, in the care of the Jesuits. When the boy in the ruffled shirt and beaded leggings rapped at the door of the house next the church, an old man in a black gown and skull- cap came out, and smiled at the children in a friendly way. "Well, Joseph?" said he to the boy, in French, " what is it now ? " "Is Pfire Eugene at home yet, Brother?" questioned the lad in the same tongue. "Nay, nay," replied the old man, shaking his he wore an rlet plumes [e fellow it I his bright, He was as I arrow, little Love, away from ig house in arge, frame big yellow holic chapel Francis was anity, many bers, known 3 care of the and beaded >use next the rn and skull- ihildren in a the boy, in , Brother?" le. , shaking his WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 103 wise head, "the Father is on the Easter visita- tion ♦.o many scattered tribes. It takes a long time to look them aU up, and attend to their souls. It may be weeks before he gets baxsk. But, who is this little lady you have brought us, this morning ? " " I know not," returned the boy, cautiously, in the Huron tongue. " N'-o-kum fetched her to the village, last night." "She is a pretty little girl," said the Brother : whereat. Love guessing from their looks and words that they talked about herself, burst into tears, and began to sob: « I want my mamma I I want to go back to my dear, sweet mamma, and to papa, and Mar- got, and Colette, and Rose-Marie 1 " " Take her to see St. Anthony, Joseph," said the good Brother, rather flustered by the child's tears and outcries. "Teach her that U is the saint who finds all that is lost for those that in- voke him;" and away he bustled back to. his kitchen, whence the smell of burning meat gave him to know that the dinner of b^r's flesh was being overdone on the neglected spit. Joseph soothed and petted his little companion as weU as he could, gathering some early wild flowers for her, and leading her by the hand to a circular plot of ground, in front of the church, railed in by a very pretty rustic fence. 104 LOT LE8LIE 8 >LK8. In the centre of this, was a pedestal of stond, some four feet high, on which, under a hood of native oak, stood a beautiful statue of a saint, bearing in his arms an image of the Infant J<%nB. This was St. Anthony of Padua, in his brown habit with its cincture of knotted cord, his ton- sure and his rosary. His face was smiling and gentle ; and the lovely face of the Holy Babe in his embrace, looked up at him with an expression of confiding tenderness, very touching to see. Around the base of the statue, some words were printed in Latin, which neither Joseph nor Love could read. If the little girl could have made them out, she would have jumped for joy. As it was, how- ever, ahe followed the boy very soberly, when he unlatched the gate in the rustic fence, and led her into the enclosure. There was a kneeling-bench before the feet of the statue, large enough to accommodate two persons. Joseph drew his new friend down beside him on this homely prie-dieu ; and began to explain to her all he had been taught about St. Anthony, and of his power to find lost persons and things for those who pray to him devoutly. While the little girl listened with deep inter- est, lisping after him her simple petition to the Wonder-worker of Padua, to restore to her, by li^ WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE ItlVEKS. 105 of stond, a hood of I a saint, ant JasoB. his brown d, his ton- niling and y Babe in expression to see. me words oseph nor them out, was, how- brly, when fence, and the feet of odate two beside him to explain Anthony, tnd things leep inter- ion to the to her, by his pra^'ers, her lost parents and friends, there were others of her blood who were beginning, at that hour, to draw nearer to her, in the Faith of Christ — the faith of that great Household, whose children all rejoice in a common Father and Mother — a Divine Father, a heavenly Mother, devoted, unfailing, imperishable. In the lodge of the widow, Mary Tarbuki, Faith and Hope Leslie had found a peaceful home, after the battle of the blockhouse, on the banks of the Detroit. Prudence Skillet was already there, as the faithful slave of Mary and Catharine. Wh^n she represented to her mistress the sad state of the two little girls whom poor Suitara's death had left at the mercy of the fierce Ottawa squaws — Pontiac's many wives — the saintly Wyandot woman and her daughter eagerly agreed to buy the young Yankees from Sui- tara's stepmother for a handful of plumes and trinkets. A zeal and piety like those of the early Chris- tians burned brightly in the breasts of Mary and Catharine. They hungered for the salvation of souls; and it was mainly the hope of leading the white sisters to the True Faith (of which Pru- dence, they suspected, had already begun to see the force and beauty) that induced them to pur- chase the two girls from the Ottawaa. ^P" 106 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. They knew them, and Prudence, aa yet, only by the* Indian names Suitara had given them. Not since the fatal morning when the young Leslies had been torn from their happy home on Swan Island, had they known such true peace and joy as they now tasted in the lodge of the Tar- bukis. Suitara had not been a cruel mistress ; but, nevertheless, their daily life had often been made miserable for them by her caprices, her jealous moods, her nvmy savage tricks and turns of fancy. How different all was in the home of Mary and Catharine! How sweet it was to serve these gentle, unselfish women, who bore in their beau- tiful faces the peace and love of God 1 It was easy to see that they sought Him and His divine Will, with a single heart, by day and night— that, like their beloved Master, they went about doing good continually to their people. The baptism of the Princess in the blockhouse had made a powerful impression on Faith and Hope. Catharine had looked to them, that gloomy day, as an angel of light and mercy. The unearthly peace and brightness that set- tled on Suitara's brow at the moment of death, had seemed merely a reflection of the lovely light that always shone from Catharine's tranquil fa«e. Her mother, " Mistress Tarbucket," as Prudence '•'•M ^BiP WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 107 yet, only them. |the young home on peace and f the Tar- itress ; bat, been made ler jealous turns of ' Mary and erve these their beau- i I It was His divine ight— that, tbont doing blockhouse Faith and at gloomy IS that set- t of death, ovely light nquil face. ) Prudence called her — Omi-Me^ (or the Dove) as the tribe named her — was a simple, fervent soul, whose life was one long act of prayer, penance, and good works. Even old Why-washi-braoch, Catharine's blind grandmother — Anne by baptism, but whom Miss Skillet hilariously styled ''old White- wash Brush " — edified all around her by the singular perfec- ' tion of her life. Sitting constantly on a mat, in a corner of her daughter's lodge, telling her prayer- beads, or speaking to the young people when they drew near her, in words of living faith and glowing piety, it seemed to the little white girls as if a very seraph were hidden in the homely shape of the old brown, wrinkled, sightless woman. Her knowledge of divine truths was remarka- ble — ^plainly, a special gift of the Holy Ghost ; and the three Yankee slaves learned from her grave, gen le lips, many precious things about God and salvation, of which they had been ut- terly ignorant all their lives. These, they could not very well escape listen- ing to, as the blind grandmother held a regular Catechism class, each day, in her corner of the lodge, to which the little Wyandots were fetched by their mothers,- who daily resorted to Mary Tarbuki for medicine, advice, consolation in their trials, or reconciliation with their enemies. 108 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. Mary was, indeed, almost worshipped by those simple children of the forest, who reoogi^zed in her, solely by their Christian instincts, «A perfect woman, nobly pknn'd. To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet, a spirit still and bright. With something of an angel light." Under the quiet roof of this dear Omi-Mee, the fall and winter months passed peacefully away ; and if, at times. Faith or little Hope fretted meekly in secret for the old Swan Island home and the dear ones they had lost, if they longed to be out, once more, on the wide, grey beach, gathering shells among the rocks, or running breezy, rosy-cheeked races in the blithe salt winds — Prudence, good woman, was ever at hand, ready to quiet them at night, when she soothed them to sleep, or cheer them, by day, when they labored at her side, with her encouraging quota- tions from the Bible, such as : " When thou pass- eth through the water, I will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not ov»flow thee ; " or, again : " He hath showed thee, O man, what is good ; and what doth the Lord reqnireof the^ Imt to Ao juitly, and lovennerey, and^wiOk himibly with thy ftod ? Hear ye the rod, and wK<> hath a|»p6int6d it." Thus blindfolded, as it were, and quite unooa- ed by those cognized in *mi-Mee, the fully away ; !ope fretted Island home they longed grey beach, or running te salt winds iT at hand, she soothed ', when they iging quota- )n thou pass- th thee, and rflowthee;" 3 man, what luireoftheA, irilkhiimHy nd wK^hath quite nnooa- WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. scious of the fate before them, the three slaves were being led by their household angels, (as were many, of o'd, in the days of early Christian Rome)— conducted through the strange, quiet darkness of their time of bondage into the true freedom of the children of God— into the bright- ness of that city which " needeth not sun nor moon to shine in it : for the glory of God hath enlightened it, and the Lamb is the hunp thereof." !P" CHAPTER IX. THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION. Night had faUen by the time Father Peter's canoe shot into the bay, shaped like a half-moon, and washing what was then known as Montreal Point, but now marked on our maps as Sandwich, in Ontario. Timothy Grindstone, who sat in the prow of the boat, holding in his arms the almost lifeless form of little Wilson Leslie, was surprised to see a number of bright lights, flashing here and there, along the shore, dancing through the darkness, like so many shooting meteors, or wandering will-o'-the-wisps. Stepping from the boat to the beach, he saw that these w. e torches carried by Indians, as the Christian Hurons came running quickly from their wigwams to welcome the priest. The news of the fight at the blockhouse had reached them through some runners of their tribe (for the Wyandots and the Hurons formed, after all, but one great famUy); and these men were eager to hear details of the battle. Father Peter was deaf to their questions, how- uo ^«4^ ION. bier Peter's half-moon, 8 Montreal Sandwich, be prow of lost lifeless rised to see e and there, le darkness, wandering ach, he saw Indians, as uickly from 3khouse had jrs of their ons formed, i these men tie. sstions, how- THB MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION. lU ever, until they had fetched him a sort of canvas stretcher, made from an old sail, on which he laid the limp figure of Uttle Wilson, bidding them carry him gently up to the mission house. The priest, with Timothy, led the way. Some three hundred feet abc /e the shore, and overlooking the strait, stood then a good-sized buUding known as the Huron Mission-house of Detroit. Close by, was the mission church of our Lady of the Assumption, dedicated less than fifty years before. It was built of hewed, upright timber ; and was about one hundred and fifty feet long. There was a large bell in its belfry, which began to ring just as Father Peter and his party drew near. Immediately, those who carried the stretcher stood still ; and all fell upon their knees save Timothy, who did not know that it was the Angelus bell, announcing, even in that wild spot, the Incarnation of the Eternal Son of God, and the glory of His Virgin Mother. The church-door stood open, and Father Peter, lifting his cap, knelt on the threshold, and said the prayers aloud— all, save Timothy and Wilson, responding with solemn devotion. Somehow or other, it moved Grindstone al- most to tears, to look on those kneeling savages, Iwwing their heads, and uniting in fervent prayer ■ 1 iia LOT Leslie's folks. with their priest. And he was near enough to one of the torches, to watch the Father gazing with adoring eyes into the fragrant darkness of the church up to the dim outline of the white altar, with its perpetual lamp burning before it, like a holy star. He was still pondering over the scene, when he found himself, with the others, before the big Mission house, with its massive stone chimneys and dormer windows, brought into clear view by the light of the full moon, but just arisen. On the step, in that flood of silvery light, stood a slight, venerable man, with the face of a scholar and a saint. He wore a bUck gown and cap similar to those of Father Peter. This was the Superior of the mission— Father Armand of the Society of Jesus. He still bore traces of the paralysis, that had stricken him down, nine years previous. He gave a warm, gentle welcome to Timothy : and (Ume as he was) helped with his own hands to carry poor little Wilson into the Infirmary of the Mission— a long, exquisitely neat room, with a double row of little white beds. On one of these. Father Peter hiid the wounded boy ; and Brother Borgia, then in ohai^ of the sick, proceeded to examine and dress his bleeding arm. This done, and his face bathed with a so. lution of vinegar and water, the little fellow ^ 9nough to er gazing irkness of the white before it, ene, when re the big chimneys uf view by >en. ery light, e face of a gown and in — Father e still bore ricken him > Timothy : own hands ifirmary of room, with le wounded uge of the is bleeding with a 80< btle fellow THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION. 118 opened his eyes with a deep sigh of relief. It was the first time he bad rested on a comfortable bed since the awful morning of the surprise at Swan Island. Looking languidly before him, he saw on the opposite wall, a great crucifix of carved wood. At its base, burned a taper-lamp of scarlet glass. The red flame threw its flickering light upon the pierced feet of the Christ, until they seemed to be bathed in blood. " Who is that Man, Timmie ? And why does He bleed?" whispered the boy to Timothy, who was bending anxiously over him: "Have the Indians wounded Him, too?" *' Be still, dear child ! You will learn all about it when you are well," put in Father Peter, who had caught the faint, pathetic whisper. " Give him a sleeping-draught. Brother ; and then, we will leave him in your hands for a good night's rest. JHeu vou» gartUy cher enftmt ! " — with a kindly touch on the boy's pale brow. And while Brother Borgia lifted Willy in his strong arms, and gave him the draught, the two priests led Grindstone, rather reluctantly away, to take supper with them in the refectory close at hand. Never had poor Timothy sat down to table in company of such perfect gentlemen as Father Armand and Father Peter. But they soon put ritftai ^ ^■1 ■I \ V 114 LOT Leslie's folks. him completely at his ease ; and he was surprised to And himself laughing heartily at Father Peter's merry sallies, whUe he never tired look- ing at the grave, gentle eyes of the quiet Supe- rior—eyes that seemed to be always gazing into the unseen delights of the Other World. After an excellent supper, which his hard day of fighting and exhausting excitement made very acceptable, Timothy was given a pipe of good tobacco, and invited to join the priests around the blazing fire. Seated in the only easy-chair the room con- tained, Father Peter drew him on to repeat to the Superior, the story he had told him, that af- ternoon, on the cliff by the river. And, as Tim- othv described the dreadful attack on the Swan Ishiiid fort, and the slaughter of old Captain James Wilson and his wife. Father Peter asked many questions about Lot LesUe's folks ; and wrote down in a little book, the names and ages of all the members of that scattered family. ♦•We've never seen any of them since we parted in the boats," said Grindstone sadly. " They may all be dead, now, save Willy and me! And what are we?" (he added with some bitterness as he looked down at his blood- stained rags and torn moccasins) : " what are we, but a pair of half-naked savages ? We've lost all likeness to civilized human*." • » A. MMMM THE MKS.SION OF TUJi AHHUMPTIOIT. 116 [urpriied Father look- Jet Sape- dng into lard day It made pipe of priests x>m oon- repeat to that af- as Tim- ;he Swan Captain ter asked Iks; and and ages lily. since we le sadly, ^illy and led with lis bJood- it are we re lost all Then, he went on to remark how gladly he would swap his Indian toggery, on the spot, for a decent suit of white men's clothes. All the more, because llaukimah and most of his nation had been slain, that day, in the fight at the blockhouse. But Father Armand knew well the habits of the natives, and how strong and solemn were the ties of adoption into any of the tribes. He advised Timothy to have patience, and wait un- til he was sure that the vengeance of the sur- viving Caughnewagas would not pursue him and little Leslie to the death. It was the custom of the tribes (he said) to follow, like sleuth- hounds, and to torture and kill any '* pale-face *' who deserted from the camp after having been once adopted, as they had been, in the place of their illustrious dead. " Talk about standin' in dead men's shoes ! ** said Timothy, with a grim laugh, "why, sirs, it ain't a touch to meanderin' around in a dead Caughnewaga's moccasins ! " — but he wa8 forced to submit to his fate, seeing how wise and rea- sonable were, the Superior's arguments. He contented himself, therefore, with drawing out the silver rings from his nose and ears, secretly resolving to do the same bold office for Willy on the morrow. And, Father Peter, observing presently that W 116 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. f the poor feUow began to yawn a great deal, and to grow very stiff and drowsy in the unus- age of a soft chair and a comfortable fireside, led him away, right willingly, to bed, in one of the little white cots close to Wilson's, where he was soon wrapped in a deep, refreshing sleep. The silvery sound of a chiming bell awoke Timothy very early in the morning; and, steal- ing softly to the window, he was surpriseil to see the two priests in their black gowns and cloaks already quitting the house, and making their way down the road. Some impulse moved him to follow them. Seeing that Willy was still breathing quietly in a sound, restful slumber, Timothy caught up his blanket, and crept out to the hall, where he found the great entrance door unfastened. He passed through it into the road, along which were hurrying many Hurons — men, women, and children. All seemed bound for one common point. Some of these eyed Grindstone with natural cu- riosity. Others recognized him at once as the white Caughnewaga the Bla«k Robe had brought home with him, the past night, in his canoe. No one spoke to or molested him; but he kept pace with the swiftest, until they ended by showing him the way to the big church near the river. % t ^ great deal, Q the unuB- )le fireside, i, in one of 8, where he ing sleep, bell awoke ; and, steal- lurpriseil to gowns and md making V them, hing quietly r caught up 11, where he «ned. road, along rons — men, (imon point. ti natural cu- once as the had brought is canoe, him; but he ley ended by irch near the % i THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION. HT Timothy thought to himself that it was a mighty queer time of the day to go to meeting. He pushed on with the crowd, however: ami, once in the church, he got behind one of the thick wooden pUlars that supported the roof, where he stood upright, seeing evorything, but himself quite hidden from sight. When he gazed curiously about him, he found he had no need to hide himself from view. Nobody looked at him— nobody looked at anything but the white altar, on which candles were burning, and some strange objects were shining. Once, when a boy, he had gone to meetmg in a country town. What had struck him, there, had been the easy sociability of all concerned. The congregation had chatted, and exchanged bits of gossip in the pews: the parson had walked down the aisle, shaking hands with old and young, and saying a word, here and there, about the weather, the crops, and what not. There was nothing solemn— nothing worship- ful- „ J u In this Indian Mission church, all seemed ab- sorbed in the service ; every eye was riveted on what was going on at the altar. And Timothy, looking steadily in that direc- tion, thought it the strangest sight he had ever seen. 118 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. i'i A white man was there, old and grey, and dressed up in a black gown, surmounted by an- other of white linen ana lace, over which he wore a queer green silk overcoat, without sleeves, and covered with gold embroidery. He was as busy as he could be at the altar, now reading out of a big, gilded book, again, doing something with a golden drinking-cup and a litUe round gold plate. He kept bowing, and turning, and saying queer words softly, in a tongue unknown to Timothy ; and two little Indian boys, wearing long scarlet gowns, gave him, at one time, what looked like wine and water out of a brace of small glass bottles from a table close by; and at another, offered him water to wash his fingers with, and a clean napkin to dry them. After awhile, a little bell rang, up near the al- tar; and, at the liound, all the people in the church fell down upon their faces. Timothy, also, dropped down upon his knees. He could not help himself. The silence was profound. He was trembling from head to foot. He had a strange feeling in his untutored heart that Something very solemn and awful was go- ing on at that light^ altar I Some One was- there Whom he did not knoWj a* yet: hut Whom, for the ^st time, he burned to know, and love, and serve, all the days of his life/ I ?rey, and «d by an- which he ut sleeves, the altar, ok, again, g-cup and ^ing queer Timothy ; ng scarlet ooked like mall glass another, ; with, and ear the al- pie in the lis knees, tilence was lad to foot. x>red heart fol wasgo- 9t know, a* burned to ^f his life! THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION. 119 Fall of these strange thoughts and desires, and bewildered by all he saw, it was a long while be- fore he recognized the old man in the green silk robe, who lifted the white Wafer and the golden Cup, and bowed down, adoringly, before Them. It was long (or it seemed long to him), before he understood that he was really Father Armand, the Superior of the mission — the priest with the wonderful eyes. But he had a great many questions to ask Father Peter, after breakfast, that morning, when the merry, sociable priest took him to see the great Forge (with its brawny armorer) that had been builded near the crescent bay, and where weapons and farming tools were made for all the male adults of the mission, white or red. Later in the day, the priest brought him to the Mission storehouse, to see Brother La Tour and his help, r. Brother Regis, working busily among their huge piles of furs and blankets, their well- filled shelves of paints, cutlery, cotton, and spark- ling trinkets. Here, (thanks to the wise forethought of Father Armand!) the Huron hunters could dispose of their peltry to the English traders, without risk- ing, to do so, a long, dangerous journey through hostile territory. When Timothy and the priest entered the big store, it was thronged with traders, hunters, run- h 180 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. nere of the woods (coureurs de boit), or bush- rangers. . A motley crowd, they were, sitting or lounging about on bales and boxes, most of them in blanket- coats, or frocks of smoked deerskin, their rifles beside them, and a knife and a hatchet in each stout belt. In their midst, a young Huron hunter, tall, shapely, i»iid handsome as a bronze statue, was questioning Brother Kegis as to why some men (like himself) were red of skin, while other some (like Eegis) were white as the snows of winter. Before the busy lay-Brother could make fitting reply, a bold, clear voice rose out of the crowd, and smote all the rest into silence, as one of the traders began to recite, in French, an old Indian legend. It was an odd, musical rhyme, given rapidly, with striking gestures, and with many a flash of white teeth and brilliant eyes in the speaker's dark Canadiar face. Stripped of some of their native grace and force, the words might be made to read thus in homely English : " Before her father's wigwam, painted golden by the sunset, In scarlet blanket, crouching near the trader's blue-eyed mate, Swa-nee. the chieftain's daughter— her black hair bound with wampum. Watched stealthily a group beyond . polisado's gate. I, or bush- ir lounging in blanket- bbeir rifles bet in each anter, tall, Btatue, was ' some men other some ►f winter, oake fitting the crowd, } one of the I old Indian en rapidly, ly a flash of be speaker's I grace and read thus in he sunset, blue-eyed mate, boir bound with io's gate. THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION. 121 « Her father in the foreground, brown and brawny, plumed and painted, Er'ry inch a kingly savage, with his scalp-knife in his belt. Pointed out a disUnt valley to a fair New England stranger, Whose negro servant near them, by his roaster's trappings, knelt. " aosely watching, like a panther, her velvet eyes half-open. The little Swa-nee murmured lo the trader's wife, apart : • Brown as autumn leaves, my father; white as snow, the pale- faced chieftain ; Black, the other, as the storm-ctoud ere the lightning rends its heart! « • Tell me, woman, wise in magic, hath Manitou a meaning When He painte the wr.rriors of the nations, white, and L'own, and black t ' — The traler'F blue-eyed helpmate smiling answered, sideways leaning. As she shifted to her bosom the baby at her buck: " • Swa-nee, it is a legend, by the Seminolet narrated. Told at night around their camp-fires, where the trader's rest hath been : That Manitou, when earth was new, three white-skinn'd braves created, And led them to a little lake, bidding them wash therein. "•The first sprang promptly at his word, and, plunging, came out fidrer Than when he entered; but his bath had troubled aU the Uke; And he who followed, white at first, was stained with copp'riih laver; While he who lingered last, canae fiwrth as bhwk as lobm could Bukel IT I 122 LOT LESLIE'vS folks. "•.Then, Manitou cast down upon the grass before the bathen, Three packages, safe hidden in the bison's swarthy skin : And bade them make their choice. 'Tis said, the black man seized the hugest, And op'ning, found the iron spade, the hoe, and rake, within. "•The red man grasped his pack, in turn; and lo! within it, hid- den, Were fishing-rod and tomahawk, were bow and arrows bright ; While, within the snake-skin wrappings which, at last, the Pale Face lifted. Were ink-horn, quill, and parchment— a burden, strangely light! " < So thou seest, chieftain's daughter ! ' laughed the Jwld wife of the trader. As she sprang upon her feet, and slung the baby at her back : 'Thou seest, little Swa-nee, that Manitou kath meaning When he paints your warriors brown, our* white, and others, black!'" Some of the French traders clapped their hands in praise of their fellow, as he finished his re- cital ; but most of the Indians sat silent, motion- less—staring ahead of them either sullenly or stupidly. The young Huron who had questioned Brother Regis scowled askance at the Canadian; and Brother La Tour seemed uneasy when a sturdy English trader (Henry Alexander by name), be- gan to tell the company about his visit to Fort Du Quesne, four months before. He described, in the Huron tongue, his having the bathert, arthy skin : ihe bUck man nd rake, within. ! within it, hid- 1 arrows bright; ch, at last, the irden, strangely ! pold wife of the »by at her back : meaning rhite, and others, 1 their hands ished his re- lent, motion- sullenly or >ned Brother nadian; and hen a sturdy )y name), be- visit to Fort le, his having THE MISSION OP THE AS8UMPTI0X. 128 stood upon the rampart of the fort, one lovely summer morning, and seen the kegs of bullets and gunpowder broken open by the haJf-orazy followers of Captain Beau jeau— all helping them- selves at wilL He told how he had gone with Athanase, the Huron, to the dark ravines where the French and Indians crapped Braddock and his troops on that fatal ninth of June. He had seen the splendid columns of the Brit- ish regulars, in their scarlet uniforms, file along the narrow path by the Monongahela, the music playing gaily, and the sunlight sparkling on their polished bayonets. There, followed the noble band of Virginia rangers, headed by their young leader, George Washington, with his aids, the gallant Gage and Gates— all afterwards to be- come famous in the Eevolutionary War. . He gave a thrilling account of the battle in the gloomy ravine ; and his voice sank almost to a whisper, as he described the shocking end of his countryman, Braddock; while Washington, (he said), rode through the dreadful carnage, calm and unhurt, although he saw two horses killed under him, and four bullets pierce his very clothing. Timothy felt much attracted to this speaker. Small wonder at it. Henry Alexander was really a very superior man— college-bred, and wonder- fully informed, ac well, by extensive travel. If 124 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. His tongue had a winsome sound ; and his looks pleased the Yankee more than those of any he saw about him. , He had some Uttle talk with hmi m Enghsh, before Father Peter (who had been going about among the other traders and hunters, saying a good word, here and there, to his spiritual ^il- dren), came to fetch Timothy baxjk to the Mis- sion house. - Here they found little Willy up, and dressed —looking rather pale and weak, it is true, but propped with pillows in the easy-ohair by the fire, and quite ready for his dinner. Father Armand had been kindly showing him a big book, full of colored prints; and it was easy to see that the gentle old priest had com- pletely won the boy's heart. « . , At table, his seat was beside the Superiors. He listened as keenly as Timothy to the talk be- tween the two priests-his perilous life among strangers having made him unusuaUy observant for a child of his age. Father Peter spoke of some indifferent matters at the Mission store and at the Forge; of Ren6 de Couagne and Louis St. Ange, the noh factors in Montreal ; and of messages that had jwt wme from the farm at Bois BUn.o (or White Wood) as to fowls and eggs. The horses, Major and White Bade, were do- id his look! of any he in Engliah, ;oing about •B, saying a iritoal ohil* o the Mia- md dressed is true, but lair by the owing him and it was wt had com- > Superior's; the talk be- I life among ly observant nrent matters >ge ; of Ren6 ) noh factors ad just oome ite Wood) as idc, were do- THE MISSION OF THE ASSUIIPTION. 186 ing well, (he said), and iSmtris, the mare, was lively as ever. He had just begun to tell that Charles Parant, the carpenter, had been bespoken to make a new altar-rail in the church, two closets for the vest- ments and linens in the vestry, and a couple of chapels, in alcoves, each siie the main altar, when, after a soft rap at the door, a young In- dian girl came hurriedly into the room. She wore a skirt and sack of blue flannel : and a large, brass crucifix hung about her neck. Her face was so beautiful, and her slight form so modestly graceful, that, at the first glance, Willy Leslie thought one of the pictures on the wall— that of the Loveliest '^f Women, in a blue cloak— had stepped down from its frame to stand before them. " My Father! " she said, fixing on the Superior her large, dark eyes, as soft and liquid as a forest fawn's ; " there is sorrow in the lodge of I^igah wei (my mother). Last night, Anne Why-wathi- Irooch, my grandmother, v/as stricken for death. All day long, she has called for tCre Pierre ^" " And Pdre Pierre shall go to her at once," in- terposed Father Armand, kindly: "Is your canoe in waiting, Catharine Tarbuki ? " « I came up in the boat of Meloche, the friend of Pontiac," said the girl, as Father Peter went quickly from the room, to get what he wanted UMiw ^ K f '•- il it! 196 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. from the church. " Meloohe was fishing off our rocks this morning. He waits now in the bay, my Father, to take us back to the village." "Go, then, my child," said the Superior. " Every moment is precious. Father Peter will meet you at the church with the Viaticum and the holy oils. Make ready everything decently for him at home ; and may our dear Lord grant your grandmother the grace of a happy death with its crown of everlasting glory I " "Amen, my Father," whispered the Indian girl, solemnly; and Timothy and Willy both thought her face one of heavenly beauty, as she dropped upon her knees at the Superior'a feet, and, with arms crossed upon her breast, bowed her dark, graceful head to receive his benediction. A moment more, and she had vanished, noise- lessly as a lovely dream. mm ^ ng off our L the bay, ge." Superior. Peter wUl kticum and ^ decently [x>rd grant ippy death bhe Indian Villy both beauty, as Superior'a ber breast, receive his shed, noiae- CHAPTER X. BTBANOER8 FROM THE FOREST. Prudence Skillet was trudging along the river-road toward the forest, stopping every now and then, to poke with a stout sticlc among the bLhes, o; stopping, to look closer at the wild things that grew in her path. ,,,„„* Z was Marching for the wild mustard plant^ or for a native root that resembled the horse- She' had a very good knowledge of herbs, and was skiUed in their use among the sick. Once (a year before), she had nursed old Cap- tain Wilson safely through a stroke of apoplexy; and now, having seen Mary Tarbuki's aged mother, Anne, drop down in the lodge, as if struck by lightning, she remembered that hot mustard foot-baths and neck-poultices had been the first things to relieve the captain's head. Leaving Mary and Catharine to watch beside the bUnd grandmother, who lay, breathing heav- ily, upon a bed of skins on the lodg^floor, she set Faith and Hope to kindUng a fire, gypsy- fashion, and swinging over it a big pot of river water. van 1 SE rt* f' 198 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. While this was coming to a boil, Prudence took her stick, and went out to hunt for the needed herbs. She looked a queer figure in her old kersey coat, and short yellow skirt; but her rusty, broken shoes had given pUce to a decent pair of moccasins, made for her by Catharine's skilful fingers. She wore a shabby straw hat that bad once been Faith's, and under it, her mob^sap— her thin, dry, dun-colored hair being drawn up on top of her head in a Uttle knot, which she called her " peeled onion." A cheery soul, was this valiant Yankee woman. She had proved herself a very useful servant. She was so clear-headed, as well as of such f. handy, thrifty turn, that ahe was much thougiit of by her mistresses. She had a great deal of what New Englanders call "faculty," and, when not working for Mary and Catharine, was often in demand in the tribe ' to miake shirte and cans for the young Wyan- dots. She also knittC stockings for some of the squaws who could ariord to pay for it ; and cut out aprons for them like the gay calico one she had worn when captured on Swan Island. For these, and other little jobs, she received a few shillings, which Mary allowed her to keep for her own. She was ghid to use them, at 4^ Prudence it for the old kersey her rusty, ent pair of le's skilful rt had once Kjap — her wn up on she called cee woman, ul servant. I of such f. ich thougnt Englanders g for Mary in the tribe ung Wyan- br some of for it ; and 7 calico one 1 Island. B received a ler to keep ie them, at BTRAX0KR8 FROM THE TOREST. 199 times, in buying from tlio hunters, fruits, fish, and small dead birds, to tempt the appetite of \H)or young Hope who was delicate, and more (luinty in her tastes than Faith. Prudence had pushed her way somewhat into the thick of the forest, before she came upon what she needed. She sang, as she went, a shrill, high snatch of an old Puritan hymn. She was stooping, at last, over a bed of wild mustard, filling her apron with its dried, pun- gent leaves and pods, and looking the while, less like a Christian woman gathering healing herbs than a witch culling simples for an incantation, when a sweet low voice, at her elbow, ques- tioned her in French : " Can you show us the way to the blockhouse of the French traders ? " " Hey ? " grunted Prudence, who only under- stood a few words of the language : " can't you say it as well in Fnglish ? " "Yes, my good woman," was the reply in English, in the same sweet voice ; and turning. Prudence looked upon a most unusual sight. One of the loveliest ladies she had ever be- held stood there before her in the dim forest ; and at- her side, was another woman, evidently a serv- ing-maid. The lady was richly dressed in black velvet w 130 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. and sables— a hood of mink-skin softly framing, and admirably setting off her fair and brilliant complexion. Her eyes were large, and of a velvety bhick- ness ; and a few stray ringlets of red-gold hair curled upon her broad, white brow. The pathetic smile upon her sweet mouth was like moonlight on a rose. In spite, however, of the elegance of her appearance, something in the lady's face, something in its coloring, and in that certain sadness of expression, brought back to Prudence a memory of her lost mistress— of Lot Leslie's comely wife. It was a great joy to the poor Yankee woman to hear her own tongue once more from so lovely a mouth. The third woman seemed to have no knowl- edge of English, for she looked mutely and ques- tioningiy at her companions, as they talked, watching closely the motion of their lips. She was dark-skinned, and had a quiet, sensible face. She wore a long cloak of russet cloth, (its hood being drawn over her head), and carried a good- sized travelling-bag. "Whence come ye both?" asked Prudence, surprise and curiosity making her forget a,ll else. " From the camp of the Pottawattamies, aerois the river," repUed the lady. " My husband and I had business with the tribe." (She sighed Ily framing, |nd brilliant vety black- ed-gold hair mouth was however, of )mething in >ring, and in rougbt back mistress — of nkee woman >re from so e no knowl- )ly and qaes- bhey talked, lir lips. She sensible face. )th, (its hood rried a good- d Pmdence, rget all else, imies, aoroSB lusband and (She sighed 6TKANOEU8 FROM THE FOREST. 181 heavily as she spoke.) *' We stopped there for a day. This morning, one of their Indians rowed us over in his canoe. He was a lazy, tricksome fellow. Instead of landing us, as we had charged him, at the village of the Wyandots, he debarked us in these woods, under pretence that his boat was leaking ; and then made his way back with- out us, heedless of our pitiful outcries." "'When thou passeth through the waters, I will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee,' " muttered Prudence in her Scriptural fashion. The lady stared at her, as at one whose wits are astray ; but, seeing that the strange woman listened to her, nevertheless, with, seemingly, the keenest interest, she went on with her narrative. « We have wandered all day in the forest, seek- ing a way out. We were bound for the block- house, hereabouts ; but the wood is so thick, we quite despaired of reaching it. Some hours ago, my husband left us sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree. I was too exhausted to go further. He proposed to follow the river road to the open, telling me he would soon return to fetch us out. He ha» never returned/ . . . We grew afraid, after awhile, of those lonely wilds, with their chances of prowling beasts or savages. We Kvoee, and proojeded along the path whereby my husband bad disappeared. We had not walked 11 182 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. far, before we heard, thanks to God ! a woniai's voice singing in the distance. It was a joyful sound. We followed it quickly, and it led us on to you, ray good woman, culling simples, here, at the edge of the forest." "♦Thus saith the Lord,'" quoted Prudence, taking kindly in her own the gloved hand of the lady: "'refrain thy voice frdm weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for thy work shall be re- warded, and they shall come again from the land of the enemy I ' " " Heaven grant it 1 heaven speedily grant it ! " cried the stranger, fervently, as she clasped her hands, and raised her tearful eyes to the blue above them, in a burst of almost wild emotion : " Good woman, you know not all the hope, all the blessed promise, your words would give me. But my husband—? Think you, he has safely reached the blockhouse ? Show us but the way, and my maid and I wiU go thither at once." "Come with me, mistress," said the cheery Yankee woman : " the road you seek is close at hand. Were it not that old Whitewash-Brush is deadly sick at home, I'd go with you myself, every step of the way." " May our dear Lord reward your kindness ! " returned the sweet lady, gratefully, adding: " You live, then, good woman, among the Wyan- dots?" a, woniaa 8 IS a joyful t led us on es, here, at Prudence, sand of the eping, and shall be re- >m the land grant it ! " he clasped to the blue d emotion : le hope, all Id give me. I has safely •ut the way, once." the cheery k. is close at ^h-Brush is lyself, every kindness ! " ly, adding: J the Wyan- STRANGER8 FROM THK FOREST. 133 ««Woe is me that my banishment is pro- longed!'" quoted Prudence from king David: « I L m, indeed, a prisoner and a slave among the savages. * Turn our captivity, O Lord, as a tor- rent in the south!' But, here is your road to the blockhouse,"-she concluded, with one of those sudden changes from the sublime to the commonplace, which the lady found so extraor- dinary, and almost hiughable. There was no sign of a smile on her faxse, how- ever, as she turned back to clutch the Yankee woman's wrist, whispering mgerly and hoarsely : "Are there any captive children among the Wyandots ?-any pretty little white girls in your village, good woman?" , -r^ . "What's that to you?" questioned Prudence, cautiously ; then, seeing the shadow of disap- pointment that f eU over the lovely face before her, she melted enough to add : ^ "Well ril not dispute but what there s a couple Jf mighty nice little white gals in the lodge of Mary Tarbuki ! " ., . „ The lady turned irresolutely, as if to follow Prudence at once to her dwelling-place ; but the other dark, quiet woman laid a detaining hand on her arm, murmuring something m French, as she pointed down the road to the blo«.Aouse The lady yielded to her maid's advice, what- ever it might have been ; but, seemingly with an ■Ill 134 LOT Leslie's folks. effort. She cast a backward, plewling glance at Prudence, who watched with interest the two strangers hurry through the path toward the lake, until they disappeared around a turn of the read. " She's got something on her mind, and no mis- take, r' P. pretty lady 1 and that yellow-skinu'd demmyzeU knows her secret, and's got the upper hand of her ! " muttered the Yankee woman to herself, as she pushed her way home to Mary's lodge. The curtain of skins was thrust aside at the moment she reached it, and little Hope Leslie ran out to welcome her. She had news to tell her, as well. The blind grandmother had taken such a dread- ful turn towards noon, that Catharine had been sent to fetch the priest from the Huron Mission. Pierre Meloche happened to be fishing that morning, off the river-bank : so he had oflfered to take Catharine across in his boat. They were to bring the priest back with them at once. Miss Skillet's heavy brows lowered at the news. She had been bred a Puritan, and she hated a Jesuit, (although she had never seen one), as the devil is said to hate holy water. That Evil One saw that the good woman had been much moved and edified, of late, by the saintly lives of Mary and Catharine; and he now set STRANOKRS FROM THE FORKST. 135 glance at the two ivard the irn of the id no mis- w-skinn'd the upper woman to to Mary's ide at the Leslie ran 2h a dread- I had been )n Mission, ihing that I oflfered to ey were to ie. ■ed at the Q, and she r seen one), iter. That had been the saintly \e now set himself to stir up within her a great dislike and dread of the coming priest. Recalling all the ugly stories about Papists and priestcraft, she had heard in her narrow child- hood in the Massachusetts colony— long since forgotten— she went slowly into the lodge. She found that Faith had kept up a roaring fire, over which the big water-pot was boiling merrily. She hastened to steep the herbs she had gathered: and was soon busy binding the hot poultices to the nape of the sick woman's neck, to her wrists, and the soles of her icy feet. Before long, the fiery plasters began to draw the congested blood from the sufferer's brain, bringing back to her consciousness and imperfect Instructing her daughter to keep her well- covered with the warmest of buffalo skins, and to renew the poultices until blisters formed under them. Prudence slipped away to find Faith and Hope. It was close u the hour when Catharine might be expected to return with the priest from the Mission ; and Miss Skillet's whole heart was set upon getting her two darlings out of the way of his supposed Satanic influence. The children were busy at the fire, boiling hominy and bear's meat in a kettle, for the noon- day meal. iPP 136 L'»T Leslie's folks. . Prudence quietly tof*^' their place. Bidding them eat quickly a hearty dinner, she sent them both off to the edge of the wood, to gather the dry branches and pine-cones for firing. She had time to whisper to them before they went: j i. • " If you chance to meet Catharine and the pnest on the road, ha/ve nothing to say to him ! Dread- ful things have happened to them that had deal- ings with Popish priests. Oh ! my dearies, I'd rather follow you to your graves, and never see you more in this world, than have you fall under the power of a Jesuit ; for a Jesuit will ruin you, body and soul 1 " ' FrJghtened by the strange look of dread and mystery that settled, with these words, on the face of their old frienH and care-taker, the little girls hurried away towards the forest, and were out of sight of the lodge by the time Catharine and Father Peter entered at its door. Prudence stared at the priest with keen interest and curiosity, in spite of her repugnance to his cloth. , , " This is our slave, wow jper«, — Wchsca AmMky said Catharine, waving her hand toward the white woman, and calling her by her Indian title, I The actual words of a New England captive among the Indian* to her son, when he told her that a Jesuit priest had oflfered to buy him from the savages. Bidding sent them gather the before they id the priest n ! Dread- at had deal- dearies, I'd id never see m fall under ill ruin you, >f dread and ords, on the rer, the little !st, and were ne Catharine keen interest l^nanoe to his i*ea Amisk" toward the > Indian title, mong the Indiant ad offered to buy BTRANOKRS FROM THE FOREST. 187 "White Beaver," — a :;drae, well-earned by the Yankee servant's untiring industry. Prudence, compelled by the dignity of the Jesuit's tall, slender figure, and the high-bred intelligence of his grave, gentle face — (or was it by something higher and holier?) dropped him a curtsey, as it were, against her will. The priest took no notice of the salute, or of her who gave it. His eyelids were downcast : his lips moving rapidly in whispered prayer. Catharine had forgotten, for the moment, that he bore with him, hidden in his bosom, the Holy of Holies, the Eucharistic God, before Whom all the earth should keep silence. Her mother was approaching them with the blessed candle. Confused and sonowful for her forgetfulness, (prompted even though it had been, by her zeal to bring an erring soul to the notice of the true Shepherd of the flock), the Indian girl took the freshly-lighted taper from Mary's hand, and meekly led Father Peter to the side of her dying grandmother. The keen spiritual sense of the old squaw had already recognized the presence of her hidden Lord. Supported against her daughter's breast, the blind woman stretched forth her arms toward the approaching priest, with an indescribable look of love and longing on her dark, wrinkled w 188 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS face-a look, so full of heaven, that it brought Prudence Skillet to her knees in her distant, shady corner of the lodge, as if an angel of God had smitten her down with his sword of fire- , J X « Those eyelftss sockets, uplifted, seemed to gaze upon some Object (unseen to all, save them)-- some Person or Thing so beautiful, so bTUliant, that the mystic radiance of its beauty overflowed upon the old squaw's dusky, homely face, and transfigured it with light and loveliness. WeU might poor old Anne Why-wMh'Orooch thus wear the likeness of a seraph, adoring God in His unveiled glory ! Hers was a soul of singular hoUness and pun^. The dean of heart are ever blessed in seeing God ; and she had wrved Him fifty years from her conversion, without soiling by serious sm the white robe of her baptism. Her very blindness was a proof of her martyr- like fidelity to her faith ; for her fierce Mohawk mother, a very Jezubel of aborigines, learning m the early days of the Missions, that her young daughter listened more readily to the teachinp of the Black Robe than to the threats of the medicine-man of the tribe, plucked out her eyes with her own strong and cruel claws, and flung them to the dogs of the lodge. « Now, find your way, if you can, to the Blaok it brought )r distant, [ asgel of sword of led to gaze re them) — o brilliant, overflowed r face, and ss. lashirbrooch loring God and purity, leeing God ; ■8 from her >as sin the her martyr- rce Mohawk , learning in i her young he teachings reats of the out her eyes m, and flung to the Black STBAlfOERS FROM THE FOKKST. 180 Robe, and the camp of his Manitou ! " shrieked the unnatural fury to her victim. But, exceedingly great and sweet was the re- Avard of the young confessor. Into the dreadful darkness that fell, that hour, upon her bodily sight, there came a wonderful Light, that never afterwards wavered or van- ished. She needed not, henceforth, the brightness of sun, or moon, or star. She missed not the light of torch or camp-fire ; for the glory of the living God enlightened her soul : and night could be no more for her, who walked ever in the unearthly splendors of the Lamb. It was said of her in the tribe : " Why-^totuhi- brooch sees, day and night, the God of the Black Robe ! " — and her very mother grew afraid, in time, of that strange, steady radiance that seemed to shine constantly from out her daughter's meek, sightless face. She was glad when the Christian chief of the Wyandots asked her for his bride. She rejoiced when he carried her off to his lodge on the banks of the Detroit. iTtf-o-M-MM, as the chief was lalled, had been diz«oted in a dream to the "Blind Lily of the Mohawks,'*— a shining figure, all in white, ap- pearing to him in sleep, and telling him that if he could but win the gentle Anne for his wife, .^^ nm 140 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. joy, peace, and plenty would dwell forever more in his lonely lodge. She had provetl ♦ j him, indeed, a sweet and faithful e-wuse-ftUing his life with countless blessings, and bearing him many children of whom Mary, (or Ond-Me^) was the last survivor. And now, she was making ready to join him in that Better Land, to which Ho-a-is-ens had journeyed alone, fuU of the peace of Go a sort of stranire, wondering envy. What was that little white Object, that called forth from these poor Indians such an excess of profound worship, such an ecstasy of gkd adora- tion? .,, . The Yankee woman found it impossible to an- swer this question. i „* *ka When she took courage again to look at tne sick woman, the last anointing had begun, l-ro- dence watched the priest, praying, touch with holy oil, the eyes. and ears, mouth and nostrUs, hands and feet of the old squaw; but she wa« wholly unprepared for the startling circui .stance that followed. ., Father Peter had not yet put back the oil- stocks into their case, and Mary Tarbd^ was just about to rcKKJver with the fur rob^ the naked feet of Why-wmhirhroocK when the dying woman sprang up from her couch, and stood erect before them all. With face and arms upraised to heaven, m a gesture of unconscious tragedy, she oned aloud in the Indian tongue : «I am curedl I am curedl The Lord my God hath delivered me, in His mercy, from the '■'"'^i^-^-^f^'^if^^^^,. 1, the white before her voB pouring, a Bort of t, that called an excess of f glad adora- ofisible to an- o look at the bfigan. Pru- , touch with and nostrils, ; but she was ; circui iStanoe back the oil- Tarbuki was fur robes the hen the dying ch, and stood x> heaven, in a he cried aloud The Lord my lercy, from the 8TBANOER8 FKOlf THE FOREST. 148 shadow of death, and the chill darkness of the grave 1 " " Give thanks to the Almighty Physician, my dear children 1 " said the trembling voice of the priest, as he fell upon his knees, with the three Indian women: "Give thanks, with all your hearts, for the wonder God hath wrought. It is written : • The prayer of faith shall save the sick man, and the Lord shall raise him up.' " Whilst he began to recite the Te Deum^ softly, yet with deepest feeling, Prudence Skillet, half- suffocated by the strange choking at her throat, rushed for the door of the lodge. She felt she must reach the open air, or smother on the spot. Her brain was daze^', stunned, by all she had seen and heard. What awful lower was this that could raise even the dying to life and health? As she thrust aside the curtain at the door, she ran against Faith and Hope Leslie, returning to the lodge with their bundles of firewood. Behind them, pressed forward two other female figures. Prudence knew them, at a glance, as the strange women she had met that morning in the forest. The beautiful lady was deadly pale in her black velvet and sables. She caught wildly at 144 LOT Leslie's folks. Prudence, exclaiming in something between a sob and a scream : " My husband has not returned ! He must be lost in the forest ! What shall I do, good woman, what shaU I do? Where shall I turn for help?" The face of the Yankee woman blazed with a fire that waa almost that of insanity. She was indeed full of that madness which comes to people of narrow experience when they look, for the first time, upon the startling vijonders of divine power and mercy. She seized the strange lady by the shoulders, and pushed her vehemently towards the door of the lodge, crying out with passionate energy : «'Iu, with you, my lady I in, with you, and look upon the dead who have come, this day, to life 1 * The bitterness of death is passed.' ♦ Why art thou sorrowful, O my soul? And why dost thou disquiet me ? ' Where should you turn for help but to the Man in there, the Black Robe, who worketh miracles— who healeth the sick with a touch ? " g between a He must be good woman, I turn for bzedwithafire he was indeed to people of for the first divine power the shoulders, ds the door of ite energy : nth yon, and le, this day, to massed.' *Why A.nd why dost i you turn for 9 Black Robe, ileth the sick CHAPTER XI. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. Timothy Grindstone had found the Mission- store of the Jesuits a very entertaining place. Leaving little Willy quite happy and at home with Father Armand, in the big easy-chair beside the fire, the brave Swan Islander made his way, alone, after dinner, to the workshop of Brother La Tour, and ofFered to help Brother Regis at the counters. It was an ide hour, when there was little to be done. Few of the traders or hunters had yet come in from their noonday meal; and when Timothy had finished the little chores Brother Regis had laid out for him, he found himself resting on a bale of blankets beside the English- man, Alexander, whose fascinating talk had so pleased and interested him, that morning. " It does me . good," said he in a low voice : "to meet one of my own kind, and hear the music of an English voice. I'm sick of the jab- bering of these rascally redskins ; and the French lingo of the others drives me wild ! " " Have a care," whispered Alexander : **■ these 145 I U6 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. are dangerous words. I, myself, am only here on sufferance. If it weren't for the priests, these Indians would soon make short work of us both. Yet, with all its risks and hardships, I like the wild life of the forest. It must be the blood of my Indian forefathers stirring in ray veins." "Your 'Indian forefathers'?" echoed Grind- stone, in dismay. " Aren't you, then, an EngUsh- raan of Englishmen, born and bred ? " " For many generations— yes," returned his companion, striking his pocket-flint for a light for his pipe: "but, more than two hundred yenrs ago, a younj,- Florida squaw, Wacissa, was wed- ded to my ancestor, Juan Ortiz. Worse and worse, you think of it, eh?" (he added with a pleasant laugh) : " Spanish on one side, Seminole on the other— a queer mixture it is, and a strange story, my man. »Vould you care to hear it ? " «' That, would I," returned Timothy, heartily : "and many thanks to you, comrade, for the tell- ing. We can be quite free in our talk, I take it, seeing that no one about here understands Eng- lish but our two selves." « Don't be too sure of that," cautioned Alex-, ander, with a wary glance around him. "But it's not much for others to know, even if they chance to overhear me, that, in the year of our Lord, 1528, Pamphilo de Narvaez of the isle of Cuba was made Governor of Florida, or (as his 'StAii' THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 147 )nly here on [riests, these of us both. [ like the the blood of veins." hoed Grind- , an English- 'eturned his for a light undred yewrs isa, was wed- Worse and idded with a ide, Seminole and a strange ) hear it?" thy, heartily : }, for the tell- Uk, I take it, srstands Eng- ationed Alex- [ him. "But , even if they e year of our of the isle of ida, or (as his commission stated it), *■ of all the lands lying from the River of Palms to the Cape of Florida.' He sailed for his new domain, that year, with four hundred foot soldiers and twenty horse, in five stout ships. " This de Narvaez had previously made some name for himself by having engaged the famous Cortez, at the order of the Governor of Cuba. But the destroyer of Mexico overthrew him, and took him prisoner. Whereupon, the hot-headed and arrogant fellow cried out to Cortez : * Esteem it good fortune that you have taken t/ie captive ! ' To which, the victor replied : ' Nay, then, it is the least of the things I have done in Mexico ! ' " Well, it was in the month of April that de Narvaez landed in Florida, somewhere about Apalachee bay. He marched with his men into the country, seizing on the natives, as they went, and forcing them to act as guides. They had their heads full of dreams of splendid cities, and of towns full of gems, or of gold and silver treas- ure. They were terribly disappoi i • ted when they reached the first village (of Apalachbc) to find it a miserable little settlement of some for.'y In- dian wigwams. The natives, by degrees, got to understand that this insolent Spaniard and his people were merely treasure-hunting upon their grounds, for gold and emeralds ; so they guyed them about from one village to another, always * 148 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. {)roiDising that rich « finds ' awaited them at their next remove. "De Narvaez and his men were thus led a pretty dance over some eight hundred miles of country, losing soldiers and provisions at every turn. Coming out, at last, upon the coast, th«;y found themselves in such wretched plight, that they set about making some cockle shells of boats, in which none but the most desperate of creatures would venture to embark. In these, they coasted toward New Spain. But, alasl when they neared the mouth of the Mississippi, they were cast away in a storm, and all perished save fifteen, only four of whom lived to reach Mexico, and that, after eight years of wandering and hardships, almost past believing. " The wife of de Narvaez hearing, the next year, in Cuba, the unhappy end of her husband's trpedition, fitted out a small ompany of some score and a half of men, and sent them forth in a brigantine to search for the Governor and his soldiers. With this company, went Juan Ortiz, my ancMtor, a native of Seville, and a gentleman highly connected with the Castilian nobility. " Reaching, in due time, the coast of Florida, the newcomers, in their inexperience, eagerly sought to communicate with the natives. The natives, on their part, seemed just as eager to give them a chance. For, as the Spaniards drew ;hem at their a thus led a Ired miles of ons at every le coast, they 1 plight, that kle sliells of ; desperate of >k. In these, But, alas! le Mississippi, i all perished ved to reach of >vandering *ing, the next her husband's pany of some them forth in emor and his it Juan Ortiz, d a gentleman I nobility, ist of Florida, ienoe, eagerly natives. The t as eager to paniardsdrew THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 149 near to the shore, in their boat, three or four In- dians ran down upon the beach, and betting up a stick on the sands, placed in a cleft at its top, what looked to be a letter. Then, they withdrew a few paces, and made signs for the Spanianb to come and take it. " * It is a snare to capture us 1 ' cried the cap- Uin of the brigantine; and all aboard agreed with him in his suspicions, save Juan Ortiz, and his body-servant, Manuel Gomez. '•♦It is a letter from his Excellency, Governor de Narvaez,' urged the gentleman from Seville. ♦ It may tell us all we want to know about him and his lost company. Gomez and I will go and fetch it. Come, Manuel, let us wade at once to the shore 1' And, in spite of the loud protests of the ship's company, Ortiz and his servant pushed through the dear, green shallows to the spot on the sand, where the supposed letter waa fluttering in the wind. " No sooner had 'hey touched the beach, than the Indians swarmed out, like magic, from every side, till a multitude surrounded the two Span- iards, and laid hold of them. Gomez foolishly showed fight, and was insttintly killed by a tom- ahawk in the hands of a chief. The rest of the natives carried oflf Ortiz to the nearest Indian village— his friends in the brigantine being so frightened by what they saw upon the shore, that ii- 150 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. they put out to sea again, making no effort to rescue him. " In the Indian village, Ortiz noticed that the houses were all made of wood, and thatched with palm leaves. The two largest were the house of the chief (or caziqiie) of the tribe, which stood on a terrace, and resembled a fort ; and a temple for sacrifices over the door of which was set up a curious object. This was the figure of a great bird, carved with some skill out of wood, and fiaving gilded eyes! Ortiz wondered a good deal, as he looked at it, who could have been the painter that understood the art of gilding in that wild and savage quarter. « But he was not left long to ponder the mys- tery. The Indians hurried him before their chief, whose name was Ucita ; and who at once condemned Juan to die by fire. This was to be done as follows : " Four savages set as many high stakes in the ground, to which they bound the captive. They fastened his arms and legs, extended, as if on a St. Andrew's cross ; and, down below him, they lighted a fire, so as to make his death a slow and dreadful torture. "The flames began to rage and roar, (fed by many cruel, eager hands), and poor Ortiz feeling their scorching breath upon his feet, believed himself already doomed. As he was a good [lo e£Fort to 3ed that the atched with ) the house which stood md a temple was set up a 3 of a great E wood, and red a good Eive been the tiding in that der the mys- before their who at once his was to be stakes in the ptive. They ed, as if on a ow him, they bh a slow and roar, (fed by Ortiz feeling feet, believed was a good THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 161 Papist, he prayed fervently to God and the Madonna for aid. When lol a very strange circumstance happened.' " Out from the house of the chief, near by, there ran to Ucita, a young and graceful Indian girl. It was his only daughter, Wacissa. We had a picture of her— an heirloom— at our old English homestead across the seas. Juan Ortiz painted her, years later, just as she appeared, that day. Her skin was more of a golden tint than brown, with a rich carmine on cheek and lips. Her face was passing lovely, and she wore a robe of pure, white cotton that fell in straight folds to her feet. On her long, black, silky hair was a wreath of fresh, green palm-leaves ; and about her rounded throat, a necklace of sparkling beads, while her beautiful arms were ringed with great bands of polished silver. Ortiz always declared when he painted thtj picture (for he was very skilful in colors) that, in his awful extremity that day, Wacissa looked to him like a young goddess out of a Greek poem. **He could not understand her language, but he guessed well her meaning when, standing before Ucita, she bowed to him profoundly, and spread wide her lovely, pleading arms. Long afterward, he knew that she said to him in her rich, musical voice : ' My kind father, why kill 1 These mc actual facu, attetted by a credible authority. '■■1 152 LOT LKSLIK's folks. thig poor stranger? He is but one, and alone- how, then, can he do you or our people any harm? It is better that you should keep him a prisoner. Alive, and grateful, he may, some day, prove himself of great service to you. Spare him, then, if only for my sa. \ great and good Ucital' " Th.5 caeigue sat silent for a while, watching the furious flames leap higher and higher, lick- ing, as with tongues of fire, the soles of the victim's feet. His wrists and ankles had begun to bleed from the deep gashes made by his cruel bonds. His face was livid with agony. <'< Release the captive 1' cried Ucita, at last, rising, and going away to his house. The Indians instantly cut down the Spaniard, and laid him fainting at Wacissa's feet. When they had brought her water and oil, she gently washed and dressed the captive's wounds; and, when he revived, ordered food and drink to be given to him. He smUed up into her beautiful face, which seemed to him, then, the face of a mm- istering angel ; and made a feeble effort to kiss her tender hands. She blushed, but did not show any signs of displeasure. " In a few days, Ortiz was well enough to be allotted his special work in tha tribe. Strange and dreadful work it was, and very revolting to a high-born Spaniard of delicate taates. Death THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 153 .nd alone — people any keep him a , some day, you. Spare t and good e, watching higher, lick- ioles of the s had begun by his cruel sita, at last, house. The i)aniard, and When they Bntly washed tnd, when he be given to antiful face, 30 of a min- effort to kiss but did not inough to be be. Strange revolting to stes. Death would almost have been easier. He was sta- tioned as sentinel at the door of the village- temple, and set to guard it against all intruders, especially wild beasts. Being a place of sacrifice, it was the nightly resort of wolves, seeking for carrion. The rude altar in the centre of the gr«>iat gloomy hall was dyed red with human blood; the floor was thickly strewn with a ghastly array of skulls and bloody bones, in various loathsome stages of decay. "The sight of these, and their awful stench filled poor Ortiz with a shuddering sickness. He could not help fancying that the remains of the unfortunate de Narvaez and his men might be among the horrors that reeked under the gilded eyes of the great carved bird. The place seemed peopled, nightly, with the ghosts of the missing Spaniards; and a fearful midnight adventure, which happened, at this time, almost upset his reason." Here, the Englishman stopped to relight his pipe, which had gone out ; and the storehouse oat. Brother Fine-Ear by name, came, and rubbed his sides agaihst Timothy's foot. It was an enormous creature, smooth, round, and glossy as a black, satin cushion. From the top of his broad head to the tip of his sinuous tail, not a spot of color was to be seen about him, except his great green eyes, which I «P jL^ * — IMP rtapBQ^MSBSB r\ 154 LOT LESLIK'a FOLKS. now fixed theiuselves steadily on Grindstonp':; face. He patted his knee encouragingly, and Brother Fine-E^r sprang up upon it, and curled himuelf down under the stroke of the friendly hand, purring loudly, as he tucketl in his velvet paws, and settled to a blinking nap. "Late, one night," said Alexander, going on with hiM story : " Juan Ortiz awoke to find the temple a den of howling wolves. At sunset, that day, the dead body of a young Indian had been brought in, and laid upon the altar of sacrifice. It was the son of a great chief, and many charges had been given the sentinel to 'yuard it well. But the wolves had scented out thoir prey. " Waking in a sore fright, J'lan seized a heavy cudgel, (^which 1 ■ always kept by him when he slept), and laid about him in the dense darkness of the temple, driving out the filthy beasts. He unt'W not that the foremost, as it ran, dragged with it the corpse of the young Indian; but, hav'ng pui-sued the pack for some distance, he chanced to smite one of the wolves, at random, a mortal blow. It was not until his return to the temple, at daybreak, thttt he discovered, to his deep distress, the loss of the young Indian's body. " The aflfair made a great stir in the village ; and Ucita, full of rage, resolvec to put the THE PACE AT THE WINDOW. 156 Irrimlstoiicii nd Brother rled binmelf indly hand, t^elvet paws, sr, going on ) to find the ; sunset, that an had been ' of sacrifice. lany charges lurd it well. p prey. lized a heavy lim when he nse darkness beasts. He ran, dragged [ndian; but, distance, he I, at random, lis return to isoovered, to ung Indian's the village; to put the unlucky Spaniard to death. First, however, he sent out several Indians to recover, if possible, the lost sacrifice from the wolves. He had not credited the sentinel's version of his midnight encounter ; but, astonishing to relate, the young man's corpse was found by the scouts, and near it, the body of the huge wolf that Ortiz had un- consciously slain in the darkness. " This saved the life of the Spaniard : and for several more years, he watched at the door of the temple of sacrifice, keeping guard over the unholy dead, under the outspread wings of the great, golden-eyed bird. At last, Ucita decided to sac- rifice the sentinel, in order to win the favor of his gods upon a war he had begun to wage with a neighboring cazique, Mocoso. " But, again, Wacissa came to the Spaniard's rescue. At dead of night, she led him secretly out of her father's village, and brought him safely to the camp of Mocoso. That chief seems to have been a broad-minded man, according to his natural lights, and of great kindness of heart. He welcoraed the daughter of his rival; and Ortiz, finding to his surprise and delight, that a priest, Dom Angelo, the former chaplain of the de Narvaez fleet, was also a captive of Mocoso's, engaged him at once to marry him to Wacissa." A little interruption here took place in the trader's story — Brother Regis calling on Timothy t ■ 1,' 156 LOT LKSLIE's folks. to light the lamps around the walla of the store- house, where the twilight shadows had already begun to darken. When he had resumed his seat besidd the Eng- lishman, with Brother Fire-Ear again on his knee, Alexander continued : " For many years, Juan Ortiz and his Indian wife led a peaceful, happy life in their southern home. Mocoso grew so fond of the Spaniard, who was a good and wise man, that he chose him for his favorite counsellor, and treated him and Wacissa, as well as the priest, more like honored guests than prisoners and slaves. " Ortiz, as our family legends teU us, ' spent his time wandering with his gentle, beautiful wife over the delightful savannahs of Florida, through the mazes of the palmetto, or beneath the refreshing shades of the fragrant magnoUa— pur- suing the deer in the grey of the early mornmg, and the scaly fry in the sUver lakes, at the cool of the evening.' Theirs, was the ideal life of Adam and Eve in an earthly Paradise." " Among their many children (who, with their sweet mother, were aU made Christians by the good Dom Angelo), one daughter, YsabeUa, was destined for a different fate to that of her brothers and sisters. A young English sailor was ship- wrecked on the Florida coast, and, after clinging to a broken mast for a night and a day, was THE FACK AT THE WINDOW. 157 >f the store- lad already {idd the Eng- in on his I his Indian eir southern le Spaniard, at he chose treated him 1^ more like aves. II us, 'spent le, beautiful } of Florida, r beneath the ignolia — pur- ely morning, B, at the cool ideal life of se." [O, with their Btians by the fsabella, was her brothers or was iter clinging 1 a day, was rescued by Ysabella in her little canoe. The life that she saved was devoted, fro'n that hour, to its beautiful deliverer. Henry Alexander, (for the young man was my great-grandfather), wooed and won this gentle daughter of Juan and Wacissa Ortiz ; and, later on, carried her back to England, where he fell heir to a considerable estate. "One of his grandsons eventually emigrated to Canada, and from that branch of our family, came the Belleperohes whose descendants are now settled here, on the bank of the Detroit. It was the son of my cousin Belleperche, who gave us this morning, in this very storehouse, the pleasing rhyme on the origin of the races. He is a clever youth, and a fine deolaimer. I have been staying with his father for some days, but to- night, I start once more upon the road. What I said to you. Grindstone, at our first talk, I re- peat to you, this evening : Will you come with me to Lake George ? Will you try your luck on a trading-trip to Fort William Henry ? " At this juncture, the great cat on Timothy's knee began to spit, and rose up, ruffling its inky for, and arching its glossy back. Its big green eyes ghured at one of the store windows, blazing, like a pair of fiery emeralds. Timothy followed its gaze : and what he saw there made his heart stand still, and the blood freeze in his veins. w , p ■f I I 158 LOT Leslie's folks. A huge Indian stood outside the window, peer* ing into the store. He held his blanket arched over his head, so that he might the better see into the lighted room; but Timothy distinctly saw his face. A near-by lamp shone Ml upon it. He recognized the man as a Gaughnewaga chief, one of the craftiest and most cruel of his old masters. They had, then, tracked him to his present refuge ! The cold sweat started out over him, at the thought of being retaken, and dragged back into captivity. He lifted the great cat, and held it before his face, to hide it, if possible, from the Indian ; but he could not hide it from Alexander, who was seated with his back to the fatal window. "What ails you, man?" growled the English- man, alarmed at his companion's deadly white- ness. " Have you seen a ghost ? " " I have seen an enemy ! " muttered Timothy, shrinking into the shadow of some boxes, and setting Fine-Ear on his feet. "Say no more," he added, gripping Alexander's hand as in a vise : " I am your man. I'll go with you to- night ; but you must help me disguise myself for the journey. There are cruel spies upon my track." " Leave all that to me," returned Alexander, '^i '■>' window, peei** lanket arched he better see thy distinctly le xull upon it. Gaughnewaga >8t cruel of his to his present er hiio, at the gged back into Id it before his le Indian ; but mder, who was yindow. ed the English- 9 deadly white- tered Timothy, >mc boxes, and Say no more," hand as in a o with you to- piise myself for spies upon my aed Alexander, THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 159 encouragingly ; then, as a middle-aged Canadian entered the store, followed by a party of Indians : "Here is my cousin, Belleperche, with some of his friendly Hurons. They'll see you safe to the Mission house. Make ready, there, for the road ; and I'll call for you in an hour or two." Timothy went back, through the moonlight, to Fathe^ Armand in such a state of anxious per- plexity, that he scarcely noticed his kindly body- guard, or thought of looking about for the big Gaughnewaga. He would have been easier in his mind if he had known that the huge fellow lay, that moment, on the ground, under the store- house window, with Red Snake's knife glittering in his lifeless breast. Having pledged his word to the Englishman, Timothy was now sorely distressed at the pros- pect of parting from little Willy. The presence of the Gaughnewaga was a menace to the boy, as well as to himself. Why couldn't he take Willy with him to Lake George ? But the Father Superior soon dashed that feeble hope. Willy, (he said), was not so well as he had been, that morning. H6 had grown feverish during the afternoon. The ohild was far "too weak for a long, rough joumfey; Father Armand ha/* already sent him t6 bed. Was he asleep? The priest thought not. Timothy, then, making his way into the moon- 160 LOT i. lie's folks. lighted inflpmary, had a long talk with the lad» sitting on the side of his little cot. By the time Alexander arrived, that night, at the Mission house, Timothy had had his supper, and had arranged tha*, Willy should remain with Father Armand during his friend's absence. It was also agreed, that the boy should see no strangers, but spend his time constantly under the Superior's eye, studying, and improving him- self. The little fellow, seeing that Grindstone seemed uneaay, promised him in a whisper that he would let no one make a PapUt of him while he waa gone. When all these little matters were finally set- tled, Timothy asked for Father Peter. He wanted to say fareweU to him, and thank him for his kind attentions. H€ was surprised to learn from the Superior, that his brother-priest had not returned— would not return that night, from the Wyandot village. One of their Montreal factors, Louis St. Ange, with his wife and her maid, had been lost during the day in the forest by the river, (said Father Armaad). The ladies bad made their way with much diiftculty to the blockhouse ; but Catharine Tarbuki had brought word, at sunset, that Father Peter and a party of Indians were still scouring the vroodi for the lost merchant. ?t*i with the lad, that night, at ad his supper, 1 remain with B absence. It hould see no stantly under aproving him- idstone seemed that he would while he was ere finally set- er. He wanted ik him for his n the Superior, turned — would yandot village. Louis 8t. Ange, leen lost during er, (said Father their way with ; but Catharine ^t, that Father re still sconring TTTE FACT. AT THE WINDOW. 161 When questioned further, Catharine had said that the St. Anges had been traveling among the tribes, for months, searching for a stolen child. Father Peter hoped to bring them to the Assump- tion Mission, the following day. " You won't forget your promise, sir— to keep AVilly away from the eyes of all strangers ? " said Timothy, aa he grasped tightly the Superior's hand. And, while the good priest renewed his assur- ances that he would guard faithf uUy his precious trust, Alexander opened his pack, and took from it a wig and beard of long white hair and a bun- dle of picturesque clothing. The first, Timothy fitted over his ugly scalp- lock ; the second, he fastened securely around his jaws ; and when he had changed his Indian dress for one of the Englishman's Canadian disguises, he stood forth ready for his journey, the imper- sonation of a hardy, respectable old French trader. " If the redskins scalp me now," said he, with a grim smile, as he parted from Father Armand, " they'll not have much trouble ripping off my hairl" "And no danger of a sore head after the oper- ation, either 1 " added Alexander, with a hwgh. Could he have foreseen the future,— could he have torn away the veil from the dark and 162 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. bloody doom then shambling hideously toward him,— that laugh would have changed into a shriek of horror, strong enough to have shaken the very stars of heaven. isly toward Lged into a have shaken CHAPTER 7111. A FATAL GAME OF BALL. The English trader's first plan had been to travel down to Pennsylvania, .^A visit Fort Gripsholm on the SchuylkiU River, near the site of what is now known as Gray's Ferry. It was a Swedish station— then, surrounded by a great forest ; and near by, was the Strong-house built by the Swedes for a trafficking place with the Delawares, and other Indian tribes, who thither brougU their furs for exchange. But the news of the British victory at Lake George had changed Alexander's plans. He, consequently, m^de his way with his companion through the Great Lakes, and across the northern part of New York. Here, he struck the waters which mingle with those of Lake Charaplain, and which were first christened by the sainted martyr. Father Isaac Jogues-the Ijike of the Holy Sacrament, be- cause he came upon them on the eve of Oorp«« Christi. The name of the English king after- wards blotted out the lake's early and sacred title; and when Timothy Grindstone first looked 163 164 LOT LESIiIE'S folks. upon it, trailing its thirty miles of clear, tranquil water between loig ranges of lofty mountains, it was known only as Lake George. At its southern point, stood Fort William Henry. On their way thither, Alexander and Timothy stopped at one of its outposts, where General Johnson had encamped some of his men. These were so elated by the victory of the pre- vious June, that they had grown careless and self-confident, somewhat relaxing their vigilance against the neighboring French and Indiana Alexander was surprised to learn from the commanding officer, Captain Gorell, that, the day following the trader's arrival at the post, the In- dians were to entertain the garrison with a gam.- of Baggatiway. "What is 'Baggatiway'?'' asked Timothy of his friend, the next day, when they were alone in an upper room of the fort. " Have you never seen it played ?" said Alex- ander. " It's an Indian game of ball, and a very exciting one, I can assure you. Aren't you com- ing down to watch it ? " " Not I," replied Timothy, as he arranged upon a small table some sheets of paper, an ink-horn, and a quill pen one of the officers had given him. " I'm going to write a letter to Willy. A canoe will leave here at noon ; and I' .. glad of a chance to send a few lines. The lad's a poor scholar, to ear, tranquil r mountains, ort William exander and posts, where s of his men. •y of the pre- careless and leir vigilance Indiana m from the that, the day post, the In- with a gamo i Timothy of were alone in ? " said Alex- 11, and a very en't you com- irranged upon ', an ink-horn, ad given him. Uy. A canoe ad of a chance x>r scholar, to A FATAL GAME OF BALL. 166 be sura: ' ut Father Armand will kindly read him the letter from his absent Tim." « That old priest seems to be a goodish sort ol a man," said the Englishman, thoughtfully, " I think you said he gave you a 8afLK8. basins of birch-b».k which Quilleriez, Indian wife used (in common with her kind) for making maple-sugar. Like lightnjug, Timothy sprang to this retreat ; and, while the miserable ladder, that did duty for stairs, creaked under the weight of the com- ing savages, he hid himself aa well as he could, among the friendly birch vessels. He had hardly done so, before the door opened, and Quilleriez came in, with four of the biggest Indians he had ever seen. They were armed with tomahawks, and be smeared with blood from head to foot. Timothy's heart beat so loud at the hideous sight of them, that he felt sure its throbbing alone would betray him. But his corner v^^as so dark, and his clothing so like in color to the birch-bark that covered him, that he escaped the notice of the Indians. It was in his favor, too, that hey were all very drunk, having already swilled freely from the fort's rifled liquor- supply. Yet, he almost despaired when they staggered several times around the loft, even tripping over some of the outlying sugar-vessels— one of them, in recovering himself, almost laying hold of Tim- otl /'s shoulder. But, after blustering about with much tipsy boasting, and a long account to Quil- leriez of how many English they had killed, that eriez, Indian ) for making this retreat ; lat did duty t of the com- as he coald, >re the door ,h four of the They were imeared with t; the hideous its throbbing corner vras so color to the le escaped the r were all very eely from the ;hey staggered 1 tripping over — one of them, g hold of Tim- ing about with ccount to Quil- lad killed, that A FATAL GAME OF BALL. 175 day, and how many scalps they had taken, thoy all reeled oflf downstairs, leaving Timothy half- suffocated by the stifling heat, and dripping with perspiration. Our poor friend almost fainted from the reac- tion of his fright, and the great rush of gratitude to God for His mercies. Strangely enough, as he lay there upon his face, shedding hot, silent tears (which were no disgrace to his manhood), and afraid yet to stir — all he could see before him in the darkness was the altar of the Jesuit's church at the As- sumption Mission with the tapers burning redly upon it, and the venerable man in his strange garments lifting up above it the White Wafer and the Golden Cup. And he found himself saying over and over again in his heart, with- out knowing why he did so: "God of the Jesuit, i adore Thee ! God of Father Armand, I thank Thee ! " After all was quiet downstairs, and the pres- ent peril seemingly past, Timothy crept out from his corner, feeling very much the need of food, and (still more) of drink : for it was many hours since he had breakfasted in the mess-room of the fort. He was weak from the heat, as well, and ex hausted by the great strain of the morning's fright and horror. .J 176 . LOT LESLIE'8 folks. . A feather-bed lay on the floor of the garret, stored there for the winter's use. Timothy lay down upon it; and soon forgot the discomforts of heat, hunger, and thirst in a heavy sleep. m .1^ the garret, soon forgot 1 thirst in a CHAPTER XIII. IN THE SHADOW OF DBATH- MEETINO. -AN UNEXPECTED Grindstone was awakened by a loud and smart patter of rain upon the roof. As he lay, dreamily and drowsily, listening to it, he heard the water pourii n upon the floor from a break in the shingles o^ lead. It had just !■ nrred to him that he might catch this lucky downpour in one of the birch- bark bowls, and, with it, quench his now burning thirst when he was startled by the opening of the garret door. The dark, sullen face of a squaw that looked in upon him, gave him a fresh turn of terror. But it proved to be the Indian wife of Quil- leriez. She was, naturally, much surprised to find a strange man in her garret — dropped down, as it were, upon her, from the skies. When Timothy fell upon his knees, however, and made speaking gestures, craving mercy at her hands — she man- aged to make him understand that he need have no further tears — that the Indians had killed all 'he English, and had gone away for good. She ITT ! 178 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. soon showed him, also, what had brought her up to the loft. Hunting up some old rags from a corner, she proceeded to stop the hole in the roof, through which the rain was still pouring. Timothy at once hastened to help her as handily as he could ; and when their task wtA done, he let her know, in pantomine, how badly he needed food and drink. She promised, in like fashion, to bring him both : and presently, went away downstairs. Timothy had some fears as to her good faith ; but he felt rebuked when she returned, in a short time, with a substantial mess of bread and meat on a platter, and a jug of fresh water. When she lef^ him alone again, Timothy fell to eating with a Keen relish, and made a hearty meal, despi. ' of his anxiety as to what might come to him at any moment. Having dispatched all the food, and drank enough water to satisfy his thirst, he knelt down, and thanked God in simple words for having spared him thus far, beseeching Him to take care' of him in the future, and direct him what to do to escape his enemiep. He had never been what is called a religious man : but his life had been clean and honest ; and recent events had shown him forcibly how small and weak is man in times of peril— how great, wise, and powerful, the IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH, 170 ught her up , corner, she )of, through lelp her as }ir task wal I, how badly bring him trnstairs. good faith ; ed, in a short ad and meat ir. Timothy fell [ade a hearty what might I. and drank a knelt down, s for having 1 to take care" ra what to do ^er been what life had been ts had shown man in times K)werfal, the Providence that directs the destinies of the meanest. Much comforted by his supper, and much ».rrengtliened by his prayer, Timothy threw him- self once more on the feather-bed, and presently, fed fast asleep. It was clear daylight, when he roused again, to hear voices disputing in the room below him. He soon made out that the Indians had re- turned. They were urging Quilleriez to give up to them the old man with the long white hair and beard who had come to the post with the English trader, the night previous. Some one (they said) had seen him, yes*' r''ay, climbing in at a window of the old Frem in vin's house. Timothy had forgotten about his wig and false beard, in that rapid rush of dreadful events. He now snatched them from his head and face, and stuflfed them under the bed. He heard Quilleriez trying to baffle his pur- surers: but his wife, in a low voice, and in French, waft urging her man to give up the Yankee to them, as otherwise, they might kill her or her children, in revenge. The husband, after brief silence, yielded to her fears. He told the ravages that, if there were an Englishman hidden in his house, it was a rJHOMJA-diiiV-JM/Mr.Vt^KH F^flMUki^Wl^^iS^^i^'^ 180 LOT LESLIK's folks. without his knowledge, and against his wishes. To prove his good faith, he would again take them upstairs to search for him. Timothy now felt that his hour had come. He made no further attempt to hide himself ; but, when the door of the room was flung open, and the Indians rushed in a second time, he rose up quietly from the bed, and stood before them, his arms folded on his breast, white and silent as a marble statue. The savages were plainly much surprised, and almost overawed, to see, instead of the grey- beard they were seeking, a young, brown-haired vigorous man, with no trace of beard upon his face. It was like one of the magical tricks of their medicine-man. One of them, a great savage, six feet high and over, (who towered to the very rafters of the low-ceiled room) was covered from head to foot with charcoal and greane, except for two hideous white rings around his bloodshot eyes. Timothy recognized him as the Indian who had slain Henry Alexander, that morning, at the gate. He was forced to lower his eyes, as he saw, with a sickening thrill of horror, the bloody scalp of his dead friend, with its thick mass of yellow hair, dangling from the brute's belt. ft.-^-i7%^^,i^)i jnst had a close reckoning with death. There's no time to be lost, even yet. These fellows are very unreliable in their moods. They may be back again, in the space of ten minutes, raging for your blood. I have a boat out yonder on the lake, and a trusty man to row us." " Let us, then, be off at once, sir ! " urged Timothy, moving towards the open door. " Best go by way of the cellar," suggested old Qnilleriez, who had just returned to the room, after a brief absence. " Good ! " cried the priest, with a nod at the Frenchman : " 'twill be safer than the road, and may prevent unpleasant encounters. Follow me, Master Grindstone." And Timothy, with a grateful heart, was soon tracking Father Eugene down a rough ladder to the cellar. There, they struck an underground passage that led to the shore of the lake — now completely deserted by the Indians and their allies. Once in the boat awaiting them there, (with a stout young Canadian to row them), the priest told Timothy that Father Arroand was lying very ill at the Assumption Mission. He had had a letter from Father Peter, telling of a fresh stroke of paralysis. As the communica- tion was now several v^eeks old, he knew not if the Superior were living or deadL li^H^MBfliMBM mmmm^s^'s^t^m^^mmms^msm mmmmmmammmmmmBmi^mam^^mi / i ■HHHn r ^>. s; IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 iM 111112.0 2.2 Hiotographic Sciences Corporation III I W. M.M.1M,UMU. W l| I JM. MMUHJ . "' 'H i ""-". ' . I" '-HL.."! LJ .Jo 23 WfST MAIN STRHT WEBST»,N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHIVI/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microroproductions / Inttitut Canadian da microraproductions hittoriquas 1 I I I 184 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. Grindstone expressed his real concern at this sad news; and, as the day wore on, growing more and more at his ease with the priest, whose accent puzzled him : and recalling what he had said about having been Father Armand's college- mate in France, he made bold to ask him how it came to pass that he talked English not only ex- tremely well, but more with the tongue of an Irishman than a Frenchman. Father Eugene laughed, and good-naturedly explained that he was, indeed, of Irish birth and blood, but educated mainly in France. "Somehow or other," he added: "in spite of many years of the * Parlez^ous,* I have never been able to lose a touch of the good old brogue from my tongue. A^es-tout, (although you may not know it, my friend), the Irish brogue, as it is called, was really the best English of the days of Shakspere. Old Queen Bess herself used to say cmiold for cold, and haU for heat. If she were here, this minute, (the old termagant I ) she'd say it's a mighty cowM evening we're having, after all the hate of an Indian summer day 1" There was truth in this, as well as fun ; for the air had ceased to be balmy, and a chill, pene- trating mist was striking the voyagers, from the river. Bat Timothy soon found the priest was prepared for the emergency . There was a plenty of warm rugs in the boat, as, also, of good food \ noern at this on, growing priest, whose what he had ind's college- c hiro how it not only ex- ongue of an )od-naturedly ish birth and se. ; " in spite of [ have never >d old brogue )ugh you may rogue, as it is »f the days of If used to say If she were it I ) she'd say having, after lyl" 8 fun; for the a chill, pene- ^rs, from the .he priest was e was a plenty , of good food IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH- 185 < for the journey. Being, thus, well wrapped and well-fed, the travellers floated comfortably and peacefully along their watery way to northern New York. The great lakes safely crossed, they drew near, after many days, to the mouth of the Detroit river, where Timothy resumed his white wig and beard, as a precaution against spying Caughne- wagas. It was not until he held little Willy once more close to his breast, and felt the boy's warm arms tighten around his neck, that he realized how piecious life still was to him, after all the dread- ful risKs lie had suffered. Father Peter gave the visitors a hearty wel- come ; and cheered them with the news that the Superior still lived, although badly paralyzed. Word had come from Quebec, to fetch the in- valid home to rest ; but, although it was a mild, open winter, it was now close upon Christmas, and it was not deemed safe to travel so far with so helpless a charge as Father Armand in his present condition. Little Willy was simply devoted to him. It was his joy to sit near him, and wait upon him ; and Timothy soon saw how gentle and refined the boy had grown from constant companionship with the old scholar and saint. He was not much surprised when the little fel- 186 LOT LESLIE S FOLKS. low came to him, one day, (on his return from a visit to the Belleperches — poor Alexander's rela- tives), and begged his permission to become a Catholic. He had studied the Catechism thor- oughly, (he said) and if Timothy, as his guardian, would only give consent, Father Peter would baptize him on Christmas Eve. This proposition cost the good Grindstone con- siderable thought. Although he did not yet feel like going the same lengths as V/illy, it seemed to him, from fiis queer experiences in his first visit to the Assumption church, and in the garret of Quilleriez, the day after Alexander's murder — th?.t the religion of these three priests he had en- countered, had a great deal in it that was both true and beautiful. Ignorance, prejudice, and early environment, had blinded him, before his captivity, to any real knowledge of Roman Catholicism ; but his long talks with Father Eugene in the boats, and on their lonely tramps overland, had opened his eyes on a number of important pointo, so that he now thought it safe to consent to the boy's baptism. Willy was in high spirits after that, varying his quiet times of study in the Superior's room, with long trots through the snow to the church, where he helped Father Peter and Father Eugene to decorate the sanctuary for Christmas. X IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 187 eturn from a zander's rela- te become a euhism thor- his guardian, Peter would indstone con- 1 not yet feel ly, it seemed in his first in the garret jr's murder — its he had en- lat was both environment, y, to any real but his long K)ats, and on opened his tints, so that to the boy's that, varying erior's room, > the church, bther Eugene mas. Timothy himself took a hand, in time, at clean- ing the candlesticks and other brass ornaments, and fetching evergreens from the forest to set around the altars in wooden boxes. He felt quite proud when he succeeded, under Father Peter's instructions, in stringing the spicy branches, so as to form glistening arches of holly and spruce for ail the pillars and galleries of the house of God. A Bethlehem crib was put up near one of the side-pltars; and Willy nearly went wild with delight when he saw, for the first time, the lovely, lifelike figures of the Divine Mother and Babe, of St. Joseph and the a>nimals, the shep- herds and the kings, that Father Peter drew from the sacristy-closet, and set in their places in the little stable. When all was finished, it was Christmas Eve. The church was beautiful to behold, being like a holy, woodland bower, full of delicious odors of spice and sweetness. Timothy (miniM his wig and beard in honor of. the occasion), Willy, and the Belleperohes, were gathered in tiie sacristy, about noon, waiting, with Father Eugene for the coming of Father Peter. He was to baptize the boy ; and unusually flushed and disturbed was his merry face as, at last, he hurried in. *i Madame," said he, courteously, in a low tone^ r 188 LOT Leslie's folks. to Mistress Belloperche, the only woman present : " Willy has already asked you to be his godmother. May I now trouble you, at short notice, to do the same kind office for three others whom I shall presently baptize ? " While Madame Belleperche — a short, round, rosy old lady— was assenting with voluble grace, Father Peter went to the door leading to the church, and beckoned in a group of women waiting there, with shawls or blankets over their heads. There was scarcely time to note that two of this company were Indians, and three, whites — before a strange outcry burst forth on all sides, such as had never before been heard in that holy, silent place : " Timothy Grindstone 1 " " Pbudbnob Skillet ! " « Faith ! " " Hope 1 " " Wilson ! " And, in an instant, the five wanderers from Swan Island, so tragically separated— thus strangely brought together, once mor»— were clinging to each other, crying, laughing, talking all at once, half-crazy with the sudden joy of their unexpected reunion. Out of the tumult, at last, rose the shrill voice of Prudence, who leaned half-exhausted against Mary and Catharine Tarbuki, crying : " * My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath re- m an present : godmother, se, to do the lom I shall lort, round, tluble grace, ding to the of women ts over their that two of ee, whites — on all sides, in that holy, Lderers from arated — thus more — were bing, talking dden joy of e shrill voice listed against : "* My soul drit hath re> IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 189 joiced in God my Saviour.' . . . 'The sparrow hath found her a house, and the turtle, a nest where ihe may lay her young — Thine altars, O my King and my God 1 ' " CHAPTER XrV. THB 8E0BBT OF THE SCALES, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. Summer ha4 bloomed early and sudden in the Indian Mission of Lorette. A long spell of damp, hot weather (almost un- known to that high latitude), had made swift work with the snowdrifts, and forced everything green into warm and vivid life. The fields were covered with wild flowers, the soft air was ulive with the song of birds, and, before the middle of June, the great trees of the forest rustled their full robes, and whispered together, like overdressed beauties in a crowded ballroom. It was the feast of St. Anthony, and a woi der- ful day at the Mission. All the long, bright morn- ing, the Indians had been coming in, from nea/ or distant settlements, to take part in the afternoon procession. Many brought their tents along, and pitched them on the outskirts of the village. By noon, Lorette was like a huge beehive with its swarms of big and little Indians, running hither and thither, chatting, smoking, wrestling, or 190 AND WHAT tttdden in the ir (almost un- 1 made swift d everything 1 flowers, the >f birds, and, t trees of the id whispered in a crowded ind a woi der- , bright mom- , from near or the afternoon f and pitched ;e. By noon, ive with its inning hither wrestling, or THE SECRET OF THE 8CALK8. 191 painting themselves with the brightest of gaudy colors. The great statue of St. Anthony, in its green square before the church, was the chief centre of attraction. Crowds of Indians stood or squatted there, lost in admiration of the jeweled crown upon the head of the saint and of the Divine Infant that he carried ; or staring delightedly at the brave show of gilded banners that glittered and v^aved from out huge masses of white and red roses, about the base of the statue. These could not quite hide the Latin inscription on the pedestal, that read : Presented to the Mission at Lorette BY Louis St. Ange and Eileen, his wife, in mf-mory of their beloved daughter, marianne. June the Thirteenth, a. d. 1754. About two o'clock, the procession began to form, as far out on the edge of the village as where the visitors' tents were pitched. The lay Brothers of the Mission were kept busy, going to- and fro, arranging great and snail, young and old, according to their pro; places in the ranks. It was a charming sight, and one witnessed no- where in its wild, picturesque beauty, save among the Christianized aborigines of the New World mmmmmmmm ■nmnmiMiiM 192 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. I'irst, came the little children, two and two, clad in loose gowns of white cotton, and wearing wreaths of wild flowers on their pretty heads. Each carried a small Indian basket, out of which, they scattered, as they went, handfuls of rose- leaves on the path. Next, walked the maidens, also in white, white- veiled and flower-crowned, their double rank di- vided by a long rope of scarlet roses, to which each slender girl held fast by one hand, whilst she grasped her rosary-beads with the other. The young men followed, bearing beautiful banners of gay silk, painted with pictures of the Blessed Virgin and of the saints, and embroidered with gold or silver tinsel that sparkled brilliantly in the clear sunlight. These were the work and gift of the Ursuline nuns of Quebec. Here and there, in the rajiks, a maiden or a youth carried rustic cages of wicker-work, con- taining white doves, red-breasted robins, or other smaller birds, which they let loose, from time to time, along the route. The soft flutter of wings and the happy twitter of the released captives mingled with the sweet strains of the Litany of Loretto, sung by the full, melodious voices of the marchers, to an accompaniment of -native ftites, fifes, and drums. The old people Iwpt step, in pairs, as gallantly as the young. -..n THE SKCRET OF THE SCALES. 193 md two, clad and wearing pretty heads, out of which, Ifuls of rose- white, white- >uble rank di- »3es, to which hand, whilst he other, ing beautiful ictures of the i embroidered led brilliantly the work and maiden or a £er-work, con- )bins, or other , from time to itter of wings Based captives the Litany of B voices of the : native ^tes, rs, as gallantly The women all wore white veils upon their heads ; and, right behind the plumed and painted n.en, came the priest of the Mission in gown and surplice, attended by a score of Indian acolytes in their scarlet woollen cossacks. Noticeable among these, was a handsome, white- skinned boy, with bright auburn hair, carrying a great oraoifix of brass that glittered like gold in the sun. When the head of the procession reached the statue of St. Anthony, the two long ranks sepa- rated in front of it, by a simultaneous movement, leaving a broad passageway for the approach of the priest and his acolytes to the shrine. Father Eugene (for it was he) knelt for a few moments on the prayer-stool at the foot of the statue: and then, rising, entoned the favorite hymn of St. Anthony, "O Glorioaa Domina^'' which all the people began, at once, to sing with him, with great sweetness and vigor : ••O glorious Virgin, erer blest, All danghteis of mankind aboTe, Who gavest nurture from thy breast To God, with pure, maternal love, « What we have lest through sinful ZVe, The iHosson sprang from thee-reslofest And, granting Miss to nouls that grieve, Unbars the everlasting doors. IT lit ''if iiii! IM. LOT LK8LIE'8 folks. « O Gate, through which hath puied the King I O Hall, whence light ihone through the gloom t The ransomed nations praise and sing The Offspring of thy virgin womb I <« Praise from mankind, and heaven's host To Jesus of a irirgin sprung, To Father and to Holy Ghost, Be equal glory ever sung t " Turning to the singers, and motioning them with his hand to sit down upon the grass, as the Divine Master did of yore to the multitudes who followed Him in Judea, the priest began to speak to them in simple words, (and in their own tongue) of the great St. Anthony— of his glory and power, both in heaven and on earth. While he was telling them of the saint's devout life among the Augustines at Lisbon, with the Franciscans in Morocco, and later, as a mighty missioner in Bologna and Padua, where he died singing the Glorioaa Domina in the presence (as he declared) of the glorious Queen of heaven and her Divine Son, who came to meet him, — a small, dark woman, in the white cap and apron of a waiting-maid, was seen coming from the near-by Mission house, supporting on her arm a tall lady clad in deepest mourning. They noiselessly drew near the shrine, the worshippers making way for them as they came, i the King! gh the gloom I bt hort otioning them le grass, as the aultitudes who began to speak sir own tongue) ory and power, 9 saint's devout sbon, with the r, as a mighty where he died n the presence leen of heaven a meet him, — a cap and apron ling from the 1^ on her. arm a tie shrine, the i as they came^ THK iiKCVKT OF THE 8CALKS. 195 while a lay Brother set down at the iron-railing, a prayer-stool for the lady. She knelt upon it, bowing low her head, and hiding her face in the thick folds of the long, black veil she wore. Father Eugene's sympathetic eye fell for a moment upon the graceful, black-robed figure, that seemed almost bent double with its weight of woe ; but a peculiar light, ns of secret exulta- tion, came into it, as he went on to tell his listeners a little story of the saint of Padua. A picture, (he said) had been painted by a great artist, three centuries before, for a grand church in Rome. It was that of St. Anthony. He was there depicted as holding in his right hand a big book on which rested a loaf of breail, whilst his left hand pressed to his bosom a bright, glowing flame. "What signify these things, my children?" said the priest. " What mean this loaf of bread — this flame of fire? The fire represents St Anthony's burning love for Ood and his fellov men. The broad recalls a miracle that happenoJ in Padua, not long after our saint's death. Ch se to the church that was there builded to hia honor, a baby boy named Tomasino was drowned, while playing at a pond. When his little corpse was taken from the water, his mother, half-crazy from grief, threw herself uprn the small, drip- 1;^ 196 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. wi- ping body, crying out to St. A.nthony that if he would but restore her son to her, alive and well, she vowed to give to the poor a measure of corn, equal to the weight of the child. Immediately, the dead boy rose up in living beauty, and ran, smiling, into the outstretched arms of his happy mother ! " A sob broke from the breast of the black- veiled l.',dy at the jprie-dieu. She bowed her head lov» er and lower upon her hands ; but again, the strange, exultant light came into Father Eugene's eyes, and a faint smile hovered about his firm lips. " To-day, dear children," he continued, looking around upon his people : " to-day, your devoted friend, your generous benefactress, Madame St. Ange, is about to renew on her own behalf, the noble offering made to our saint by the poor mother of Padua, more than five hundred and twenty years ago. She offers to the poor of this mission, a measure of flour equal to the weight of a child of five years — equal to what might now be the weight of her little lost daughter, Marianne St. Ange.— Brother Loyola, see to it that your me i do their work ! " The lay Brother, at this word from the priest, made a sign to a group of Indians at the door of the Mission strong-house, close at hand. Several of these powerful fellows immediately brought THE SECRET OF THE SCALES. 197 >ny that if he live and well, lasure of corn, Immediately, Et.uty, and ran, t of his happy of the black- le bowed her ds; but again, I into Father bovered about inued, looking your devoted I, Madame St. kvn behalf, the , by the poor hundred and le poor of this to the weight what might lost daughter, pla, see to it •om the priest, at the door of tand. Several lately brought forward an enormous pair of scales, while the rest lugged to the front of the shrine, some huge bags of flour. ^^ " When the grain of this meal was first planted, said Father Eugene, "you must know, my dear children, that I went about the field, sprinkling it with holy water, and saying these solemn words: 'Bless, Lord, this seed, and through the merits ofmr Uessed father, St. Anthony, deign to multiply it, and cause it to bring forth frutt a hundredfold, and j>reserve it from lightning and tempest. Who livest and reignest, world with- out end, Amen.' Praise to God's goodness, it has multiplied, it has brought forth fruit a hun- dredfold ! Now, all that we need is the weight Avhereby to test the measure. Joseph ! " said he aside to the white acolyte who held the crucifix, «tell N'-o-kum to fetch the child without delay." "Pardon, my Father," interposed Brother Loyola, "but the infant is already in the bal- ance." And Father Eugene, stepping closer to the scales, had to bite back the smile upon his lips, as he saw the plump form of a little girl curled up, asleep, iu the deep dish of the balance. He quickly recovered himself, however, slip- ping on his stole, as the Indians, instructed by the ]&y Brother, began to shovel the fair white flour from the sacks into the empty balance of the 111 11 198 LOT LESLIE*8 FOLKS scales. Then, he proceeded to read from his old- time Ritual, as follows : "Blessing of corn of the weight of a CHILD — Benedictio ad pondus pueH : ""Wd humbly beseech Thy clemency, O Lord Jesus Christ, through the merits and prayers of our most glorious father St. Anthony, that Thou wouldst deign to preserve from ill, fits, plague, epidemic, fever, and mortality this. Thy servant, whom in Thy name, and in honor of our blessed father St. Anthony, we place in this balance with wheat, the weight of her body, for the comfort uf the poor. . . . Deign to give her length of days, and permit her to attain the evening of life ; and, by the merits and prayers of the Saint we invoke, grant her a portion of Thy holy and eternal inheritance, guarding and preserving her from all her enemies. Who livest and reignest with the Father and the Holy Ghost, world with- out end. Amen." Dipping his sprinkler in the silver vessel which JoEjph held toward him, the priest finished the benediction with a plentiful dash of the holy water over both balances of the scales, now rest- ing evenly on their standard. A queer little scream came from the humau side of the scales ! The cold water on her face had awakened the little one from her nap. rom his old- IGHT OF A t cy, O Lord i prayers of r, that Thou fits, plague, rhy servant, our hlessed )alance with the comfort B her length B evening of of the Saint hy holy and eserving her sind reignest world with- vessel which finished the of the holy 88, now rest- the huraau on her face * nap. THE SECRET OF THE SCALES. 199 She scrambled to her feet, and tried to stand upright in the dish— holding fast with plump fingers to its riui, as it wobbled about, and star- ing over it, bewildered and only half-awake, at the throng of dark faces before her. A murmur of admiration went up, on every side, even from the Indians. She was all in white, with a wreath of wild flowers on her pretty head—a lovely, rosy little girl, with great, black, wonderful eyes, almost velvety in their softness, and damp rings of red- gold hair curling upon her broad, white forehead. Her dimpled neck and arms were bare, and drops of holy water glittered on them, lil e dew- drops upon fresh lilies. Madame St. Ange hearing the murmur from the crowd, and feeling oppressed by the heat, flung back her long, black veil, and found her- self face to face with this amazing— this most charming apparition. "Mamma, dear little mamma!" cried the Weight in the balance, making frantic efforts to leap from the uish. It was too touch for the heart and nerves of the poor, overwrought lady. With a heavy sigh, and a murmured : " Marianne, at last ! St. Anthony be praised and thanketl ! "—she reeled, and fell in a deep swoon into Margot's faithful arms. 200 LOT Leslie's folks. When she came to herself, she was in a room of the Mission house with her maid and Father Eugene. Lying there upon a rude couch, in happy weak- ness and languor, she could hear softly, yet dis- tinctly, the voices of the Indians in the distance, chanting a musical chorus. They were singing the Hymn to St. Anthony, as their solemn proces- sion marched back, in the red light of the setting sun, to its starting-point at the tents. Madame listened dreamily to these words that St. Bonaventure wrote in honor of his holy friend : " If then you ask for miracles. Death, error, all calamities. The leprosy and demons fly, And health succeeds infirmities. "The hungry seas forego their prey, The prisoner's cruel chains give vay. While palsied limbs and treasures lost Both young and old, recovered, bout. " And perils perish, plenty's hoard Is heaped on hunger's famished board : Let those relate who know it well. Let Padua of her patron tell I " The priest drew near the couch whereon the lady lay, and stooped over her, feeling her pulse with a skilful touch. Margot curtsied to him, and quitted the THE SECRET OP THE SCALES. 201 ras in a room il and Father 1 happy weak- oftly, yet dis- the distance, were singing olemn proces- of the setting 8. ise words that of his holy rey, s vajr, resloit ,bout. rd 1 board: ell, h whereon the ;ling her pulse i quitted the room. It was easy to surmise whither she had gone, and for what purpose. ♦'You are better, my child?" said Father Eugene presently, in a very gentle voice. " Was it a dream ? " the lady answered, for- getting herself and her weakness : " or did I really see my darling, my little Marianne again? Tell me the truth, my Father, and I shall believe you, although I know you not. They told me Father Armand was here." "Father Armand is here," said the priest: " but too ill to leave his bed. You have really seen your little daughter, and in a few moments, when you are better, you shall see her again, and take her home with you." He paused, and looked steadfastly at her, be- fore he added : " Are you strong enough, my child, to support another surprise ? " Her lovely eyes dilated, and she grew a shaxie paler about her lips ; but she smiled in his face with the trustfulness of a little child looking up to its father for comfort. " Eileen ! "" said he, and his voice trembled a little : " do you not know me ? But why should I ask it? You were but a child when I went away to college. I am your father's brother, Eugene O'Connell ! " *" Thanks be to God!" was all she said, but fT i I 202 LOT Leslie's folks. the happy light deepened in her eyes, and the warm color in her pale cheeks. "But Louis, your husband?" questioned Fa- ther Eugene : " does that black dress you wear, —that widow's cap upon your young head, mean that " " He died less than a year gone, heaven rest his precious soul 1 " murmured Eileen, as she wip^ away a tear. " He was lost in the forest of Detroit for a day and night, last autumn was a year. At his age, the exposure and strain were fatal. He never recovered from the fever that followed." "Mamma, mammal I want my mammal" cried a sweet, wilful voice at the door, and little Love Leslie burst into the room, like a small whirlwind, escaping gleefully from the clutches of Margot, who pursued her with a little garden- hat in her hand. She darted straight into Ma- dame's outstretched arras, like a wild bird into its nest, and cuddled close to her, while the bliss- ful Eileen showeretl kisses of passionate warmth upon the tender cheek, and brow, and lips. The touch of the child, the sound of her merry voice, her soft, warm pressure on her bosom and arms, seemed to revive Eileen as with a life-giv- ing cordial ; and presently, to Father Eugene's surprise, she stood up, and began to straighten Love's tumbled dress and ringlets. Then, with es, and the stioned Fa- s you wear, head, mean heaven rest )en, as she n the forest lutumn was strain were fever that mamma I " r, and little ike a small the clutches ittle garden- ^ht into Ma- id bird into lie the bliss- late warmth d lips. )f her merry r bosom and th a life-giv- er Eugene's o straighten Then, with THE SECUET OF THE SCALES. 208 Margot's assistance, she tied on her own bonnet, and expressed herself as strong enough to depart for Quebec, where she had been staying with some friends of her husband. As it was only eight miles distant, and her own handsome coach and horses were at hand to convey her thither, her uncle could make no ob- jections. She would gladly have carried him oflf with her, then and there, but it was impossible. Promising to visit her at Montreal, (his own duties permitting) as soon as she should be set- tled again at home, the priest took little Love by the hand to lead her to the carriage. But that strong-spirited young lady soon showed them that she had a mind of her own- that she did not intend to turn her back ungrate- fully upon the one friend she valued most at Lorette. Even the delightful prospect of riding home, like Princess Belle^Ue in a beautiful chariot, could not tempt her from her allegiance. "Mammal" she cried, stopping short with n bewitching smile and gesture : "I can't go home without Joseph ! " "And what, pray, is Joseph?" aaked Eileen highly amused (we are sOTry tp«ay) at her darl- ing's wilfulness : ^'is it a dog, or a oat, or a wild Indian?" " Wait, till you see,, little mamma," said Love, 204 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. trotting with basiness-like alacrity to the door of the room. " He's just outside here, in the hall, where I told him to stay I " And, in a moment, she was back again, like a (lancing sunbeam, pulling in with her Joseph, the acolyte, now in his Indian dress, and looking rather red and frightened. " It's a wild Indian after all ! " sighed Madame in despair ; then, suddenly struck by the strong likeness between the children, as they stood, hand in hand, before her : " Who is this boy ? " she asked, almost sharply, of Father Eugene, who was laughing, and pinch- ing Joseph's blushing cheek. "A pet of Father Armand," returned the priest. " He accompanied him hither, with me, from t.he Huron Mission. I don't see how he will part with him." " Father Armand said he would let me go, if Madame wished it," said the little fellow quietly : "although if it were not for Marianne (whom I love), I would be very loath to leave him." Father Eugene, looking keenly at the boy's bright, manly face, suddenly remembered thd re6ord of the Leslie family that Father Peter had sbcywn hon at the Aasmnfttion ]tiiaioii> wlwa he tola him Tiraothy»rthrillmg story. He drew closer to his niece, and spoke to her in a whisper : ■HUH o the door of B, in the hall, again, like a r Joseph, the and looking rhed Madame ty the strong they stood, most sharply, ig, and pinoh- retumed the her, with me, \, see how he let me go, if sllow quietly : inne (whom I e him." at the boy's lemberod thd ber Peter had ■OH) wlwa he ■poke to her THE 8ECRKT OF THE SCALES. 205 " There's more in this matter, I begin to think, than appears on the surface. Better not separate the children, Eileen. Take Joseph with you, at least for the present. If you find, later on, that he does not suit you, it will be easy for you to return him to us." So it fell out, that Love, as usual, had her way, pushing Joseph ahead of her into the family car- riage; and Madame and her maid presently drove oflf with them to Quebec, Margot mutter- ing, as she went, in her corner of the coach : "Weill well! Monsieur St. Antoine never does things by halves ! He has not only given back Madame, her daughter, but presented her, at the same time, with a son ! Grace d M. St. Antoine/** i^ x^ lAIA 1*1 ■miBSIIBMI CHAPTER XV. A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA. It waa well on toward the summer of 1767, before Brother La Tour could spare Timothy Grindstone. He had proved himself most useful to Brother Regis in the work of the Mission storehouse; but, when the days began to lengthen, Father Peter made a long-intended change. He sent the honest fellow to oversee the Mis- sion farm at Bois Blanc. Timothy was glad of the furlough to green fields, and outdoor work under the blue skies. Life at the farm would de- prive him, it was true, of Willy's constant com- panionship, and of his frequent intercourse with Prudence and the girls down the river. But it was arranged that he was to spend every Sun- day at Assumption ; and as Willy visited him at Bois Blanc a couple of times a week, and Pru- dence and Mary Tarbuki were often sent to the farm to do the extra washing, scrubbing, milk- ing and mending. Grindstone bad no chance to grow lonesome in his new quarters. To help him still further to good spirits, Father Peter, on one of his visits to the farm, rummaged 306 mm imam A DI8C0VEBY AND A DIL:!MMA. 207 omer of 1767, pare Timothy elf most useful )f the Mission lys began to long-intended irersee the Mis- iiy was glad of outdoor work farm would de- constant com- itercourse with ) river. But it and every Sun- ' visited him at week, and Pru- ften sent to the Drubbing, milk- i no chance to •8. 1 spirits, Father irm, rummaged out of a closet an old violin that had belonged to a dead lay Brother, and gave it to Timothy. He had been used to play the fiddle by ear in the happy, bygone days at Swan Island ; and it was surprising what a spice of contentment and good cheer, this gift imparted to the new over- seer. He delighted to clean himself up after supper ; and spent the best part of his evenings, after his hard day's work, fiddling away at his old- fashioned tunes. Willy was enchanted with the music. He kept so close to his friend's elbow, on such occa- sions, that he scarce had room to draw his bow. It did the player's heart good, to see the boy laugh till the tears "an down his cheeks, when a couple of the farm-hands danced a jig, as they sometimes did, on the floor of the big kitchen (or, as it grew warmer, on the green outside) to the lively strains of Timothy's fiddle, in Money Mmk, or Feter*s Street Those were happy, peaceful days for the good Grindstone. The first shadow cast upon them was that of Willy's departure with Father Armand to Canada. The milder weather and a slight improvement in his condition, at last allowed the sick priest to travel, by slow stages, to the house of his rest. Father Eugene being on hand to conduct hinr safely thither, it was judged best that Willy (or 208 LOT L£8LIK*S FOLKS. Joseph, as they called hitn by his baptismul name) should go along, also, and the Provincial approving, be put to college in Quebec. So, Timothy went over, one beautiful June (lay, to the Mission house, and said farewell to bis dear little friend. Then, he helped Father Peter and Father Eugene to lift into the wagon and stretch upon a mattress, the almost helpless form of the Superior. His eyes grew dim with tears as he felt on his head the touch of the venerable priest's white and wasted hand, and heard his whispered : " Ood reward you, good Timothy, and lead you soon to the perfect light of Truth ! " The wagon was rolling slowly away to the river-landing, with Willy waving his hand vigor- ously from the back, before Tim discovered that he had certain companions in misery. Prudence Skillet, (whose Christian name was Martha), was sniffling away at his elbow — too low in spirits even to quote her favorite texts of Scripture — while Faith and Hope Leslie (now Agnes and Helen) sobbed bitterly beside her, their aprons thrown up, disconsolately, over their heads. Father Peter came to the rescue on the spot, with the merry and wise proposal that Timothy on the return of the wagon from the landing, should take Prudence and the little girls back ««M*i bapti8iiial ) Provincial JO. utiful June rewell to his Emd Father ■etoh upon a rm of the tears as he able priest's whispered : nd lead you iway to the hand vigor- jovered that a name was elbow — too rite texts of Leslie (now beside her, |r, over their on the spot, lat Timothy ^e landing, » girls back ▲ DISCOVKItY AND A DILEMMA. 209 with him to the furni, und luuke a holiday of it, gathering wild flowers for our Lady's shrine. The cheerful priest had not finished a decade of his beads, before the horses, Major and White- Back, had returned ; and the wagon was rattling away up the road to Bois Blanc, with Tim and his friends inside, already much diverted by the change. When they reached the farm, which Grind- stone had quitted at ilayUreak, he sent Prudence and the girls at onoe to the adjacent woods, to gather the altar-flowers, promising to join them as soon as he had had a look at the men and the stables. He was leading Major and White-Back round to their stalls, when one of the hands stopped him for a word. He was a Yankee captive, named Pringle, whom Father Armand had redeemed from the Horons, for work upon the farm. " Stranger in the mare's stable, sir," he whis- pered to Timothy. '^Must'uv slipped in, this momin', when you was takin' out the beasts." *'When did you find him there?" asked Timothy, startled, yet stem. ** Daybreak, when I went in to feed Souria. He wuz a-lyin' on his face in the straw. 'Peared to be dnmk or sick-like," said the man. Timothy hurried toward the barn, wild vi- Il 1.1 III* ij,',i 210 LOT Leslie's folks. -fiions of Caughnewaga spies rushing through his brain. " Your axe, Pringle ! " he turned back to say to the other, who carried one : " and stand ready to fight for your life, if necessary ! " he added. Then, stepping cautiously into the stable, he came upon the stranger, lying in the straw, al most at the mare's feet. The first look at him gave Timothy to know that he had nothing to fear from the intruder. He seemed a small, insignificant creature, in shabby clothing, threadbare and dust-covered. His old rusty hat lay beside him, and his wretched boots were broken and water-logged. He lay, face downward upon the straw, as Pringle had described him, and a more forlorn object for a white man, Grindstone had never seen. "Hi, th'ire!" he called, seizing the shabby shoulder, and shaking it soundly. No answer came from the living scarecrow ; and Timothy, alarmed at his silence, promptly turned the figure over on its back. A strong ray of sunshine from the stable-win- dow fell full upon the man's face. Timothy almost jumped out of his skin at the sight of it. "Bless my heart!" he shouted: "why it's Lot Leslie himself! And he looks to be half- ^laMita g through his 1 back to say d stand ready " he added, the stable, he the straw, al lothy to know le intruder, it creature, in ist-covered. him, and his ater-logged. the straw, as I more forlorn ne had never g the shabby . No answer and Timothy, rned the figure the stable-win- his skin at the d: "why it's ks to be half- A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA 211 dead. Softly, Sowria ! Softly, my girl, or you'll step on the poor fellow, and finish him com- pletely!" The mare turned her bright, intelligent eyes upon him, whinnying her friendly assurance, that she meant no harm to the stranger. And, there was Pringle, in the very nick of time, ready to fetch a shutter from one of the barn-windows, and help Timothy to stretch poor Lot upon it. In this fashion, they carried him over to the farmhouse. Timothy, for a while, almost fancied his old master to be dead— so ashen, limp, and lifeless did he appear, when they laid him on the clean, comfortable bed upstairs. But, after they had covered him up well with blankets, and put to his feet stone jugs filled with boiling water, the warmth revived him wonderfully. He was soon able to take a smok- ing draught of liquor, mulled by Timothy : and, later on, some hot chicken-broth that Prudence made for him. For she ahd the girls had been hurriedly sum- moned from the woods by Pringle ; and the ex- citement that followed their arrival at the farm would be difficult to describe. Suffice it to say, that it was well their altar- flowers were gathered in advance; for no one MU l J II UB P . iiW MU W I 2id LOT LESLIK's folks. had time for the rest of that day to do anything else, save wait upon Lot Leslie — to nurse him, and cook for him. The poor man was literally starved and travel- worn. He had tramped the country, for weeks, from the St. Lawrence to the Detroit, with little food and less shelter — running terrible risks on field and flood from wild beasts or prowling savages. The loss of little Love at Three Rivers, just Avhen he was sure of carrying her back to New England, her open aversion to him, and the bitter reproaches of Wheelwright on his return to the Golden, Lamhy had almost proved a death-blow to a constitution never strong, and already under- mined by many sorrows and hardships. His journey from the St. Lawrence to the De- troit, in his weakened conditio! had proven a dreadful experience. Completely exhausted in body, and broken in spirit. Lot Leslie had crawled, that morning, into the stable at Bois Blanc, when Timothy's back was turned ; and, with his blood freezing to ice, in that darkest hour before day, Imd lain down to die, in the straw at Sourit* feet. Later on, when he first came cut of his dead faint to a comforting sense of a soft, warm bed in a neat, sunshiny room : when he looked around to discover Timothy and Prudence on one side, and Faith and Hope on the other, while his nos- w mmwmjmw mm bo do anything -to nurse him, red and travel- or weeks, from nrith little food 3 risks on field rling savages. 30 Rivers, just •T back to New , and the bitter 8 return to the a death-blow already under- ihips. mce to the De- had proven a exhausted in ie had crawled, >is Blanc, when with his blood mr before day, %t Souru* feet. :ut of his dead M>f t, warm bed I looked around ce on one side, , while his nos- A DISCOVJiRY AND A DILEMMA. 21 :] trils were regaled with delicious odors of hot spirits and savory broth— the poor fellow broke down utterly, and cried like a baby. But, before evening, though still weal, he had grown wonderfully chipper. At sunset, Pringle drove Prudence and the girls back to the settle- ment, leaving Lot, bolstered up in bed, with a light in his eyes and a color in his cheek, almost like those of the old days at home. Timothy had hard lines of it getting him to rest, that night. He had so much to tell, so much to listen to, that sleep seemed out of the question. At last, Tim, honest fellow, remembered his fiddle, and fetching it, played softly on it all the old-time tunes— full of the sweetness and sadness of Swan Island days. The sound of the sea washing on the rocks at home, the voices of the dead wife and the lost baby, with murmurs of the salt wind blowing over the blossoming marshes, seemed to melt into the simple music, and soothe the poor tired crea- ture to rest. He slept> with a peaceful smile upon his lips ; and Timothy lay down beside him, comforted, and dreamed happy dreams of Willy and of one other dear one^ until the dawn of day. In the course of the morning. Father Peter came over to the farm, and had a talk with fT" 11 214 LOT LKSLIE's FULKS. m it J I. it Grindstone. Pringle and Prudence had told him all about the tramp in the stable. Faith and Hope had coaxed him to let their father stay at the farm, at least, until he was strong enough to trudge away elsewhere. The good priest had a look at Lot, and a chat with him, alone ; and ended by telling Timothy to feed him on the best, and clothe him well, and, as soon as he should be lit for it, to give him work at the bam. So, like a storm-tossed bark anchored in a safe haven, poor Leslie found himself, at last, the settled inmate of a comfortable home, with plenty to eat and to wear. His work was of a kind he understood and liked ; and it did Aot distress him, in the least, to be now forced to take his orders from his former serving-man. A just and reasonable master, Timothy proved himself to be ; and if Lot could have forgotten that Willy was away in Canada, and little Love, Heaven alone knew where, among the Indians — he might have contented himself with his light tasks about the farm, and looked for nothing more. But, a tender-hearted creature, was Lot, and passing fond of his own. Many a night, when Timothy touched the bow to his fiddle, and drew forth the sweet strains of Wandering Willy ^ or ice had told .9. Faith and father stay at )ng enough to ot, and a chat ihng Timothy him well, and, ,j to give him ored in a safe , at last, the ) home, with iderstood and in the least, to >m his former mothy proved :ave forgotten id little Love, the Indians — with his light 1 for nothing was Lot, and a. night, when Idle, and drew •ing Willy y or A DI8C0^*^BY AND A DILEMMA. 215 My love m like the red^ red rose., the hunger for his little children burned in him, like a consum- ing fever, and the big tears rolled down his sal- low, sunken cheeks. His two elder girls oiften came to see him, and Mary Tarbuki always made him Avelcome to her lodge ; but plain, commonplace Faith and sickly, scrawny Hope (who wei . their father's feminine counterpart), could not console him for the ab- sence of the two bright, handsome life ones — the pride of his heart — in whom thf lost moth- er's comeliness lived again. So it came to pass that, after some months of peaceful, wholesome labor at Bois Blanc, Lot gave Timothy to understand that he could con- tent himself no longer. The keen longing to seek and recover his lost children was driving him, day and night (he said) to take to the road, once more, and tramp his way to Canada. Grindstone thought it a foolish quest. He tried to convince Lot that Willy was better off than he knew — on the fair way, as he was, to be- come a great scholar ; but Lot's only answer to him was : " You're not a father, Tim, and you know nothin' about the feelin's of a father ! "— which, being the truth, Timothy could say no more ; and was forced to let him go. Meantime, Willy and Love were happy as 216 LOT LK8LIE'8 FOLKS. 'I lambs at play, in the handsome old house at Montreal — every hour growing nearer and dearer to Madame and Margot. Love had begun to go to the day school of the Ursuline nuns; and Willy was a pupil at the Jesuits' college, not far off, where Father Eugene arrived from Lorette, in course of time, to teach one of the classes. He told Willy that his dear Father Armand had just died in Quebec; and when the little fellow turned white as a sheet, and burst into tears and choking sobs, he spoke so beautifully to him of the emptiness of all earthly things — of the glorious reward Ood reserves for such pure, heroic souls as his venerable friend's, that Willy could not continue to grieve for his loss; but labored every day, more and more to profit by his instructions, and imitate his virtues. Before Father Eugene had had a chance to visit Eileen, he received a note from Margot — a secret, mysteriout* note which puzzled him greatly. It read: " Come to Madame, my mutresg, as toon as you ca/n. There is something very wrong with her, something which she hides from her faithful Margot. Be discreet, and betray me not." The children were out at play in the great sunny garden, and Eileen St. Ange sat alone in KS. A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMM*. 217 ne old house at learer and dearer lay school of the i a pupil at the re Father Eugene of time, to teach Father Armand when the little t, and burst into >ke so beautifully arthly things — of ^es for such pure, end's, that Willy for his loss; but nore to profit by virtues. had a chance to ! from Margot — a zzled him greatly. 9sg, as soon as you wrong with her, rom her faithfvl vy me no<." )lay in the great &.nge sat alone in her charming old parlor, when Margot, who had been on the watch for him, ushered Father Eugene into her lady's presence. It was a beautiiui room, rich with furniture of polished rosewood. There were costly curtains of velvet, and silken tapestries, wrought by the dainty fingers of the master's long-dead anceb- tresses ; and all about the lovely young mistress, were strewn curios and priceless treasures in gold and silver, crystal and china, from old France, heirlooms of the high and ancient family of St. Ange. Old-fashioned Sfivres bowls filled with roses, and set here and there on oval, spindle-legged tables, shed delicious, musky odors on the dim air. But Madame, in her black dress and snowy widow's cap, looked thinner and paler than when her uncle had last seen her. She sat before an antique writing-desk of ebony and pearl, with a manuscript of parchmenc open under her hand. A small, but exquisite, lamp of hammered brass and amber crystal burned beside her ivory casket of sealing-wax, exposed with her amethyst crest. Its isoft, golden light brought into relief the dark circles around her brilliant eyes, and deepened the sad, drooping lines drawn about the delicate lips. At the sound of the priest's entry, she rar 218 LOT LESLIE S FOLKS. to him with the open-hearted confidence of a troubled child, greeting its kind father. "What is it, dear niece?" asked Father Eugene, as Eileen suddenly burst into tears. "I am sorely troubled, my uncle," she an- swered, when she could control her voice suffi- ciently to speak : " and sadly need your counsel, although I tremble to seek it. — I have made a strange and startling discovery." The priest remaining silent, she continued : " Not long since, whilst searching in this old desk of Louis' for a lost account-book, I came un- expectedly upon this paper" (she laid her jeweled hand upon the parchment on the desk): "It is my husband's last will and testament." " The one he executed just after the birth of your child — leaving you all he possessed ? " " No," she whispered, with white lips : " one of later date, of which I was wholly ignorant. He made it a month after I adopted the strange* child that N'-o-kum sold to me. TAm," (again touching the will), "save for a small annuity, to me for life, — leaves house, lands, money — all he owned, in short, to his nephew and name- sake in France, the young Louis St. Ange ! " Father Eugene knit his brows, and the hot blood of his Irish forefathers rushed to his cheek. " What was his motive for this, think you ? " he asked after a pause, full of significance. confidence of a father. asked Father t into tears, uncle," she an- l her voice sulli- ed your counsel, —I have made a le continued : ;hing in this old book, I came un- laid her jeweled he desk): "It is ment." Iter the birth of ite lips : " one of y ignorant. He ted the strange* }. TAm," (again imall annuity, to ads, money — all phew and name- 8t. Ange 1 " nrs, and the hot hed to his cheek. \xis, think you ? " g^ificanoe. A DI8C0VKBY AND A DILEMMA. 219 "Pride of blood, I fear," she answered. "I knew him to be very sensitive on the score of his family name ; but I never knew, until noWf how fiercely he resented my giving it to this outcast child. He said little at the ti** ^ : but privately, he settled the matter in hia own aristocratic fashion." "And everything goes to this nephew, abso- lutely, and at once ? " questioned the priest. " Absolutely— yes ; at once — no. Young Louis St. Ange is to inherit all— save my pittance — when he comes of age. That will not be for five years yet." " Have you submitted the matter to your fam- ily lawyer ? " asked Father Eugene, glancing over the parchment on the desk. "Yes," returned Eileen: "but without any change in the situation. It was he who drew up the will for my husband. It is perfectly legal) he assures me : and Mr. St. Ange was of sound, disposing mind when he made it. The only flaw in the whole proceeding was his leav- ing it in this old desk, instead of depositing it for safe-keeping with his lawyer, or at his banker's. That bit of carelessness cost me a terrible temp- tation." She broke down again, and covered her face with her hands. "It would have been so easy to destroy itl" ^gm 330 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. she whispered : " I was sorely tempted ; not for my own sake, but for the children's, Uncle Eu- gene. How can I keep them and educate them, as becomes their position, on the paltry pittance that will soon be all I can ciiU my own ? " " ' Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,' " said the priest quietly. ''We have five long years in which to consider this question, and prepare for the worst. God alone knows, my child, what other changes five years may bring 1 " '* Mam ma ! mamma ! " screatned little Love, darting, that moment, into the room, followed by VVilly^ " Hide us, dear little mamma ! Lock the door— quick! Don't let that horrid little man steal me again ! "■ "What does this mean, my pet?" cried Madame, clasping her darling to her breast, and soothing her, as one might soothe a frightened bird. " Where is ' that horrid little man ' ? " " At the garden gate," said Willy, who was calm and grave. His many strange and sobering experiences had made the boy precociously old and serious in his ways. " It seems to me," he panned, with a musing hesitation: " I have seen him somewheres before — a long time ago. The gate was open. Mari- anne and I were looking out at a pedlar with his pack. The first thing we knew, the man was ^'■•^ ii ^' ll w ^l 4lM.^J ^ 4 mm A DISCOVERY AND A DILKMUA. 221 ipted ; not for n's, Uncle Eu- eduoate them, >altry pittance own?" evil thereof,' " tave five long question, and ne knows, my 8 may bring ! " d little Love, m, followed by [iia ! Lock the rid little man pet?" cried her breast, and le a frightened leman'?" rilly, who waa ag experiences old and serions with a musing tewheres before u open. Mari- pedlar with hii , the man waa staring at us, and pointing his finger, screaming in English : * There's my daughter ! That's my son ! Come to your father, little Love ! ' " "That's V(^hat he called me before, when he and that cross-eyed man stole me in the wagon ! " pouted the small girl. ** He slobbered all over me, saying I was his baby, his little Love ! But I ain't — I'm my mamma's baby, I'm my mamma's love ; and I hate that horrid little dirty mendi- antf" " He did look poor," said Willy, slowly : " but Father Armand told me once that it was a good thing for one's soul to be poor. He said our Lord was poor, and loved and blessed the poor ; and that it was as hard for a needle to go through the eye of a camel, as for — as for " " You mean as hard for a camel to go through the eye of a needle," corrected Father Eugene, smiling : " as for a rich man to go through the gate of heaven." "I don't care," pouted Love, shaking her plump shoulders : " I like to be rich, in spite of your 'camels' and your 'needles' eyes,' what- ever they are. Please, dear little mamma, send the steward to the garden' to drive that nasty man away I " " Is he still at the gate ? " asked Eileen in sur- prise. **Tea," answered Willy : " he said he wouldn't 222 LOT LKH lie's folks. go away until he took sister and me with him, if he had to wait all night for his children." Madame and Father Eugene looked steadily and significantly into each other's eyes. Then the priest took up his barretU, and quitted the room, saying as he went: "Keep your soul in peace, my daughter, while I look into this mat- ter." He added gently, as she followed him to the threshold for a parting word: "Fenelon says : ' It is better to wait and open the door with a key, than to break the lock through im- patience.' God bless you, Eileen 1— who knows but what I am about to find the key to your present difficulty ? Au revoir 1 " cs. me with him, if ihildren." looked steadily jr's eyes. Then , and quitted the 3ep your soul in )k into this mat- followed him to rord : " Fenelon i open the door lock through im- en 1— who knows the key to your n CHAPTER XVI. IN THE DOUBLE UOU8E AT PHILADELPHIA. Five yeai« have passed since the events nar- rated in our last chapter— five years of bloody incident and startling changes to the French set- tlers in the colonies, and their Indian allies. Louisburg, Niagara and Fort du Quesne, arc in the hands of the English. Quebec has fallen — adding one of the most picturesque scenes to this romantic drama of war, and crowning it with the tragic deaths of Wolfe and Montcalm— ami Canada has surrendered to the British crown. The Mission of the Assumption at Detroit has suffered, in its turn, from the devastating ravagen of war. The young braves of the Huron nation, long since, deserted their lodges and their hunt- ing-grounds to foUovv lhc?r French brothers Uj the battlefields of the north and east. Returning no more, they have left their places at the camp-fires to he filled by the old men of the tribe, by the squaws and little children. The Mission-forge forsaken : agriculture, hunt- ing and trading abandoned— the revenues of the Mission storehouse and the Mission-farm began 233 m m 224 LOT Leslie's folks. to dwindle, scarcely sufficing to furnish cat's meat to Brother Fine-Ear, whose noble proportions had shrunken, and glossy coat roughened with the hard times. They no longer afforded a decent salary to our old friend, Timothy Grindstone. He had grown sick of war, and of rumors of war, and, at last, was anxious to settle himself in life. One pure, sweet hope had been steadily ripen- ing in his heart for a couple of years. His dream, by day and night, was of a happy, peaceful home in the distant City of Brotherly Love, where he might gather around him the friends he held most dear, and rest content under the shadow of his own vine and fig-tree, far removed from the din of bloody battle. He delayed no longer to become a member of the holy Catholic Church, to which he had in- clined since the day he heard his first Mass in the Mission church of the Assumption. There, Father Peter instructed and baptized him ; and, the year before Major Rogers and his gallant Hangers sailed into the mouth of the De- troit to demand the surrender of the Fort, and while Pontiac, chief of the Ottawas, was playing fast and loose with both French and English, — Timothy said farewell to Bois Blanc, and jour- neyed down alone to the city of Penn. A happy accident, here, won him the favor of irnish oat's meat proportions had hened with the jnt salary to our He had grown v&T, and, at last, ife. n steadily ripen- iTB. His dream, 1^, peaceful home Love, where he friends he held r the shadow of imoved from the me a member of hich he had in- first Mass in the •n. ed and baptized > Rogers and his Qouth of the De- af the Fort, and ¥as, was playing ch and English, Blanc, and jour- Penn. bim the favor of IN THE DOUBLE H0U8E. 225 an eccentric old Quaker lady — Mistress Dorothy Pemberton, a rich widow without chick or child. She engaged him first as her coachman, and hiter on, as a sort of steward, or general-utility- man, on her handsome farm on Walnut street, not far from the banks of the Delaware river — then, a rural quarter of Philadelphia, filled with the homesteads of the wealthy Friends. To the south, lay the Bettering House (or re- treat for poor Friends) and the old Quaker Alms- house (since made famous by Longfellow) — which then stood, as he says : " — in the suburbs, in the midst of meadows and woodlands." Between these two buildings, was what Tim- othy's mistress called " the Popish Mass-house," where the honest fellow soon found strength and comfort for his soul. Father Robert Harding was the pastor at that date, (assisted by the German missionary. Father Steinmeier or Farmer); and his chapel of St. Joseph, newly-built, was then only five years old. It was an oblong structure, sixty by forty feet, rough-cast and i^ebble-dashed, with an arched ceiling, and no galleries, save a small organ loft. There were only about eight windows in all — but they shed light enough to reveal the lieauties of two fine pictures in oil, that hung upon the homely walls — those of St. Ignatius and St. f LOT LESLIE'8 folks. Francis of Assissi, which hid been sent from Europe to the first pastor of iSt. Joseph's. Timothy liked best, however, the splendid painting ot the Holy Family, that hung over the one little altar of the chapel— the work of the Philadelphia artist, Benjamin West, although executed in Rome. Humble as was this little house of God, Tim- othy often knelt there at the Communion-rail, side by side with the grand foreign ambassadors, whose statel" mansions were located south and west of the church, and who, with their large retinues of attaches and servants worshipped reg- ularly at St. Joseph's. There, he saw the son of Lionell Brittin, the first (known) Philadelphia convert to Catholicity, and his father's freed slaves, Quan and Dinah} And there, too, he met numbers of the poor Aca- dians who, through the kindness of Mr. Benezet, were then living in their small, wooden, one-story huts on the north side of Pine street, between Fifth and Sixth streets. A timid, forlorn lot, they were. In his free time, and of evenings, Timothy went for a little schooling to Magnus Falconer, the schoolmaster, who kept at Randal Yetton's, a goldsmith, opposite Gray's Alley, Front street. Fourth street was then the westernmost boun- I See Griffin's Am. Cath. His. Researches, April, 1899. iUtei J ;* p. een sent from [)sepb's. the splendid , hung over the le work of the V^est, although e of God, Tim- ommunion-rail, n ambassadors, Eited south and ith their large ivorshipped reg- lell Brittin, the ; to Catholicity, an and Dinah} )f the poor Aca- of Mr. Benezet, x>den, one-story street, between lid, forlorn lot, nings, Timothy agnus Falconer, iandal Yetton's, sy. Front street, stemmost bonn- lei, April, 1899. IX TIIK DOUBLE HOUSE. 227 dary of Philadelphia. It was, what its founder, Penn, had desired it to be— "a green country town " ; and Father Greaton, the first pastor of St. Joseph's, has recorded that he saw there, on all sides, "gardens paled, and orchards here and there."' The roads in the neighborhood of Third ai i Walnut streets, (now so well-grade several grave for people to !S at a distance, iust, for such as Islanders — and, rder to send, or 1. Montreal, tell- ler at Madame nothy was con- it his dear boy Lot had gone , the baker. B Lad left thein, with Mary and nothing, as yet, IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 220 KM iKMi of the sad mishap that had befallen them, a month after his departure. A chance spark in the night, kindled by the blind grandmother to light her pipe, had set fire to the old squaw's clothing. Before day -dawn, the lodge was burned 1» the ground (with many of the adjoining huts), and poor old Anne Why-washi-hrooch, in spite of the heroic efforts of her daughter and grandchild, perished in the flames. In their homeless affliction, Mary and Cathar- ine hurried with their three white slaves to their best friend and sole earthly adviser— Father Peter, at Assumption Mission. He received them with the sympathy and lov- ing interest of a true father. While Mary and Catharine stood before him in their dark, gentle beauty, and told their sad story in simple words, without excitement or emphasis, the good priest sat at his desk, and carefully studied the situation. Just at that time, there were weighing on his mind other matters of still graver, and more terrible import. The evening pre'ious, he had entertained at supper, one who was known as " the Irish Mo- hawk chief," the famous Sir William Johnson. Colonel Duquesne and Major La Motte had been present, as well as Pierre Meloohe, the 'f^ff! 1^ !!* II 230 L(»T LKSLIKS FOLKS. miller, Charles Parant, his relative, Belleperche, Beaufait, and de Bondie. But Meloche had lin- gered after all the other guests, for a secret word with Father Peter. The Jesuit's dark cheek had paled — his calm eyes had dilated, as the miller whispered in his ear: "Tell Major Gladwin to beware of Pontiac and his men I " And when the priest had questioned further, jVieloche admitted : " The Ottawas are planning an immediate at- tack on the fort. If successful, it will prove a bloody massacre I " How to communicate this well-accredited warn- ing to the commandant, without betraying its source — had been the subject of Father Peter's anxious thoughts for many sleepless hours, when Omi-. le and her homeless ones came, at the dawn, to consult him. But, with the characteristic self-control of the missionary, he immediately bent all the powers of his wise and keen mind to the adjustment of their future. A bright thought flashed upon him. On his desk, that moment, lay a letter, just fetched him by a Huron runner from Montreal. It was from the Superioress of a convent, well- ]{nown to him there. In it, she besought him to s. ve, Belleperche, leloche hud lin- or a secret word mled — Ills calm irhispered in his are of Pontiac stioned further, n immediate at- it will prove a iccredited warn- it betraying its Father Peter's ess hours, when IS came, at the f-control of the all the powers e adjustment of him. ly a letter, just 'rom Montreal, a convent, well- )esought him to IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 231 send her, if possible, some good, pious women, either white or Indian, whom ho might deem suitable to serve as lay Sisters in her house. He had long recognized and admired the heroic virtues of Mary and Catluirine Tarbuki. He was thoroughly acquainted with the heavenly secrets of their holy, interior life. They had often ex- pressed to him their burning desire to become nuns — to consecrate themselves entirely to God, in the humblest convent-homo tb .t would be willing to receive them. God Himself, by this unexpected severing of all their earthly ties, seemed now to open the way for them to their long-desired end. It was beautiful to see their dark faces glow, and their soft eyes sparkle, as Father Peter told them of the blessed refuge, heaven had prepared for them in this gloomy hour of their bitterest desolation. " We will go at once to the house of the Lord, if our Father will permit uj," said OmirMee, with quiet decision. " And I, forsooth, will go with you," said Pru- dence, abruptly. " ' It's better to be an abject in the house of the Lord, than dwell in the taber- nacles of sinners.' I'm sorry stuif for the making of a nun, you may be thinking. Father Peter, but mayhap, God will give me the grace to end my life in peace among these holy women." M 232 LOT Leslie's folks. " O, Patience ! " cried little Hoiie, fretfully : "you'll not go away, and leave nie behind? I'll be frightened to death without you," and she burst into tears. " Helen might go with you," said Father Peter, calling Hope by lier baptismal name. "Don't cry, child ; the nuns, I am sure, will receive you into their school. It will be a good opportunity to secure your education. But, Agnes — " he added, looM.ing kindly at Faith Leslie, who had grown into a neat, well-made girl of eighteen, Avith a quiet, modest face : " I think Agnes had better not go at present to Montreal." Faith blushed, and lowered her pleasant eyes. " I met Madame Belleperche, this morning, as we were coming here," she faltered. "She was very kind. She says she needs a maid. If you think I would suit her, Father ?" and again she hesitated. The priest brought his long, slender hands to- gether with a resounding clap. "Very good ! " he exclaimed with a funny em- phasis : " very well ! Just the thing ! Madame, votre marrainej will make a kind, patient mis- tress, and Agnes, an excellent maid. Ohl we shall all take care of Agnes, you may be sure, all take the very best care of our little Agnes ! As for the rest of you" (turning to the others): " Madame, the Superior has sent me a draft for 8. LOjie, fretfully: k« behind? Til you," and she d Father Peter, name. " Don't kvill receive you mkI opportunity Agnes — " he !^slie, who had irl of eighteen, link Agnes had •eal." ir pleasant eyes, ^his morning, as red. "She was I maid. If you — ?" and again lender hands to- ith a fanny em- ling ! Madame, nd, patient mis- maid. Oh! we may be sure, all itle Agnes ! As to the others): t me a draft for IN THE DorBLE HOUSE. 233 your journey. The Indian runner waits to guide you on your way." The women and girls fell upon their knees, as he raised his hand in benediction, but he was fatherly and practical to the last. "Off to the kitchen, now," he cried, as he finished the sign of the cross, and turned back with a sigh to his other weighty and unsolved difficulties. " Get you all a good dinner from Brother Ig- natius. Then, away with you, this very after- noon, to Montreal. I'll make you ready a letter for the Reverend Mother. Pray for me, and be- gin to be saints ! " Two or three months later. Lot Leslie was in the baker-shop of Jean Martin, waiting upon a customer, when a ragged boy brought him a three-corned note. It was a queer specimen of writing and spell- ing ; but when Lot, after long and severe study, had made it out, it gave him a wonderful shock to read words that meant to say : " There are four of us, here, at the convent in Notre Dame street, Mary and Catharine Tar- bucket, your daughter Hope and myself. ' /ow toated up and down like the locust. My knees are toeak through fasting, and myfieshfaUeth affair ^■^ ^t^^gg^ I^^BBiAH *ii ffl' if. 984 LOT LKSLIE S FOLKS. nesd.'' Come, see ine, and you'll hear all the news from your old friend, "Prudence Martha Skillet." At his dinner-hour, Lot made huste to find the convent in Notre Dunie street. It was a large, grey, prison-like building. He trembled consid- erably when he was shown by the portress into the little bare parlor with its whitewashed walls, its plaster Madonna, and great, solemn crucifix. After a long wait— and the far-oflF ringing of a great bell that struck terror to his soul — the door opened, and Prudence Martha Skillet came in. Lot scarcely knew her. Always tliin' and raw-boned, her flesh had in* deed, (as her note had said), failed of its fatness. But I.«slie had never seen her look as nicely, or act as genteelly. She had a good, wholesome face. Her plain, black dress was neat and close fitting, with its black cape and snowy collar. She wore a white linen apron that fairly shone from the iron ; and her hair was done up smoothly under a very be- coming cap of black net. Her joy at meeting Ix>t wa» so "xtnime, so un- affected, that the poor fellow was quite overcome by it. He began to regard her in a new light, as she ,KS. u*ll hear all the riiA Skillet." husto to find the It was a large, trembled consid- the portress into its whitewashed td great, coleinn ir-oiT ringing of a lis soul — the door >l{iilet came in. her flesh had in- led of its fatness, look as nicely, or face. Her plain, e fitting, with its She wore a white om the iron ; and under a very be- lo "xtrume, so Un- as quite overcome new^ light, as she IN THE DOUHLK IKM'SE. 235 sat before him, lookin*; quite the lady in the high-bred simplicity of her convent-clothes ; and he listened eagerly to all the news of his dear ones that she poured forth, with a torrent of Scripture that seemed the sole remnant of her old personality. Mary and Catharine, (she told him), were happy as the day was long in their new life, and would soon get the habit. Even IIoimj was very well content, and making good use of her time in the nuns' school. As for herself— (here Prudence drew a wry face, and maile a queer gesture of desimir with her bony hands), she feared she was never cut out for a Uy Sister, or any other sort of a Sister. She had become, according to her own account, " like a palican of the wilderness," like "a night raven in the house," like "a solitary sparrow on the house-top." _ ^ ^^ «♦ * I am afflicted and humbled exceedingly, she went on to say, with king David : « ' I have turned in my anguish while the thorn is fastened — '" and then to Lot's surprise and dismay, she burst into a mighty flood of tears. He made some awkward efforts to console her; but his concern and embarrassment were- still further increased, when she sprang to her feet, and extended her hands to him, sobbing wildly : « Take me out of this. Lot Uslie, take me out I < ,, ^.i!) Ml mi 236 LOT Leslie's folks. of this, I beg of you ! Tm not fit for it, any more than I'm tit to he tiie queen of England herseif ! " " Tliere's only one way to take you out — tliat I can tliinlc of — " stammered Leslie, scratching his head, wherein bad dawned a sudden inspiration : '' Jean Martin (that's the baker), he's bin a-nag- gin' at me to marry agin. They want a woman to help in the kitchen, as my poor missus used to. A couple's better nor single help. They've a nice lot of rooms over the stable and — and — hang it all I " — he blurted, in conclusion, wiping the perspiration from his face with his coat sleeve: "I never was a man of many words. To make a short story of it — Prudy, will you I.o my wife ? " Miss Skillet turned scarlet, clean up to the crimped border of her convent-cap. She glared abont her with a startled look, as if the very walls must blush at the profanation of a mar- riage-proposal within their virgin-bounds. Then, her eyes fell before Lot's, regarding her with open admiration, yet humble diffidence — a pleading glance, that made her feel very queer, and (strange to say), exceedingly happy. " This is very sudden," she said at last, timidly, bashfully — in short, quite unlike her ordinary bustling, energetic fashion : ** you do me a great honor ; but, if you think I'll suit ? " iwte IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 287 fit for it, any )en of England 'o\x out — that I , scratching his en inspiration : he's bin a-nag- want a woman x>r missus used help. They've Ae and — and — elusion, wiping with his coat f many words, dy, will you 1 o lean up to the ip. She glared as if the very ition of a mar- bounds. , regarding her le diflSdence — a feel very queer, happy. at last, timidly, B her ordinary I do me a great ?" " ♦ Suit ' ? " echoed Lot in an ecstasy : " * suit ' ? Well, I swan ! Talk al)out yer ' pelicans ' and yer 'night-hawks' and yer 'solitary sparrurs on the house-top' — I declare to gracious, I never know'd till this minnit what a niizzablo, lone- some, fersaken creetur J've bin, ever sense my |)oor missus turn'd round and died ! Come along, Prudy, my old gal ! Now or never, we'll make a match of it, or my name ain't Lot Leslie ! " "Hold a little, master," said Prudence, still blushing, and twisting her apron-string around her finger, like bashful sixteen : " you see, I'm a Roman Cath'lic now. And you ain^t. Might as well be said, first as last,— I can't marry you, at all, unless the priest ties the knot." "Sure and sartin, the priest shall tie the knot," cried Leslie, cordially : " I don't mind tellin' you, I'm half a Papist myself, already. I give you leave to make a hull one outen me, sweet- heart, if you'll only marry me, this blessed day ! " Thereupon, Miss Skillet slipped away to hunt up Hope, her future steptlaughter, and to tell her surprising bit of news to the Reverend Mother Superior. That wise nun smiled benignly on the bride- elect, (having been thoroughly convinced from the start of her unfitness for the cloister) ; but reminded her of the marriage banrs that must be pat up, and of other little preliminaries that gfl'1^' 238 LOT Leslie's FOLKf.. must be attended to, before she and Lot could be made one flesh. The upshot of it all was, that a week later, with Jean Martin and his wife, in their best, for witnesses, and Hope as maid of honor, the happy couple went to the revtorerie of the Catholic church where little Love had been baptized. There, the same priest who had christened the child, and afterward, given the last Sacraments to Mistress Lot Leslie, (number one), administered the nuptial rite to Mistress Lot Leslie (number two) and her delighted spouse. Then, Hope went back to her school, rejoicing in a pretty dress and a box of sweetmeats ; while Lot, and his sturdy " missus," trudged oflf to begin a new life together in Jean Martin's comfortable annex, as happy as two sparrows nest-keeping in a summer grove. One of Leslie's first acts, after that, was to write Timothy Grindstone a full account of th j wedding, which he sent south by a trusty mes- senger. The war was raging at the time, however, and Tim's answer was long in coming. A wonderful letter it was, when it did come, Timothy was a rich man. Dorothy Pemberton had grown, day by day, more and more attached to her steward, treating him, lie last, less like a servitor than a son. He itMmm and Lot could be lat a week later, , in their best, for honor, the happy of the Catholic d been baptized, id christened the B last Sacraments sne), administered lOt Leslie (number r school, rejoicing weetmeats ; while udged off to begin rtin's comfortable ;vs nest-keeping in ifter that, was to nW account of th j by a trusty mes- ime, however, and ing. hen it did come. •own, day by day, ' steward, treating r than a son. He IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 239 had helped to nurse the old Quakeress, through a long and trying illness. No one, save Timothy, could support her up and down the broad old staircase of oak. Ko one, save Timothy, could carry her comfortably out into the wide, sunny garden, — where she lay for hours, daily, in her reclining chair among the flowers and bees, and where she died quietly, one day, leaving Timothy Grindstone (God bless her !) everything she pos- sessed. He was now the owner of a splendid farm and homestead — of extensive stock and lands. The house was a large, double mansion, simply but handsomely furnished, and with beautiful upper and lower balconies. He had room in it for all his old friends. *' Come on, master, with your wife and little Hope," he wrote to Lot. " One wing of my double house is yours. It has been my dream for years. Life is too short, at best, for dear friends to be long parted. Let us spend the rest of our days together." Having dispatched his letter to Montreal (thanks to Magnus Falconer, it was easier writing now, than in the days when he travelled with poor Alexander, the trader), Timothy dressed himself in his Sunday clothes, and started on a long-promised trip to the Assumption Mission. He had more to say to Father Peter, and to one of Father Peter's parishioners, than he could have written in a^ear. 1 !■• 'i Ml 240 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS. • He was not absent from Pennsylvania many days ; but he attended to a great deal of busiu.^ in a short space of time. When he returned to his lovely homestead, he lifted out of his Ught vehicle, a young, blushing lady in white, whom he introduced to Pringle, his overseer, as Mistress Timothy Grindstone ! And Pringle thought it a very pretty sight to see his master escorting his bride, at once, over the farm, showing her not only the flower beds and the beehives in the garden, but taking her to see even the cows and horses, the pigs and the poultry, the stables, and the dairy. And when, after a while, they strolled under the great walnut trees, into the fine old house, and roamed, hand in hand, through Dorothy Pemberton's many beautiful rooms, chattmg, laughing, and planning, like a couple of spring birds, nest-building, Timothy was heard exclaim- ing in loud, cheery tones : «God bless thee. Faith, my love! 'Twas a lucky day, after all— wasn't it?— when the savages drove us out from the old home on Swan Island I" , As the pleasant summer days drew on, they began to watch daily for the coming of the travellers from Montreal. At last, one lovely June day when Faith sat knitting on the broad old balcony, looking al- WBtiPIIBiiiM ylvania many eal of busiu;^ homestead, he >ung, blushing 5d to Pringle, Grindtttone ! jretty sight to at once, over he flower beds but taking her le pigs and the strolled under fine old house, ■ough Dorothy >oms, chatting, )uple of spring heard exclaim- lovel *Twa8 a it?— when the I home on Swan 1 drew on, they coming of the when Faith sat my, looking al- IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 241 most pretty in her wedding-dress of white muslin and blue ribbons, (given her by her Marraine Belle- perche),— whUe Timothy, in yellow nankeen and brass buttons, fussed about, close at han«l, among the vines and flower beds, the Grindstone team turned a corner of the road, covered with foam, and Pringle, merrily cracking his whip, brought the family coach to the door, loaded with pas- sengers. First of all, tumbled out Master and Mistress Lot and, (wonderful to relate!) their baby, Timothy; next, Hope, looking quit., the grown- up maiden in her first long gown ; and then— and then— to the great surprise and delight of Tim and his wife, a dazzlingly beautiful girl and a tall, hand- some boy, who were introduced by Lot, with a loud flourish of trumpets, as: "My daughter, I^ve Marianne, and my son, Wilson Joseph Leslie!" There was so much noise and confusion at the outset,— so much to tell, and so much to hear, that it was a long while before Tim and Faith could make out the cause of the unexpected com- ing of Willy and I^ve. Truth to say, the children looked oiit of place among their homely relatives, and amid such simple surroundings. And, while he was ponder- ing this, Timothy learned, for the first time, of St. Ange's second will, and of the change it bad I 24i LOT Leslie's folks. wrought in the lives of Madame and her adopted children. The five closing years of his minority having elapsed, young Louis St. Ange had just arrived from France to claim the estate of his deceased uncle. Whilst matters had remained in her own con- trol, Madame had dealt nobly by Willy and Love. She had managed to deposit at her banker's, a substantial sum to their credit ; and then, feeling a call to a higher life, and realizing that it was a cruel thing to keep the children longer from their ow>, (with whom there was new no risk of perver- sion, or damage to the little ones' souls)— she had retired to the convent where Mary and Catharine Tarbuki had just made their solemn vows of pro- fession : and proposed to spend there the residue of her days. Love had been very averse to this arrange- ment. Being a spoiled and worldly-minded li««,le damsel, she had been very unwilling to return to her father, and renounce the elegant life of the St. Ange mansion. This fact convinced Eileen that the little girl angularly needed the discipline before her. At parting, Madame spoke to her so wisely and ten- derly, and showed her so clearly, that the high- est aristocracy is that of the faithful children of God— that the best riches are those of a meek, 1 1 ■^m: U ^ |Jp_y Wl lHiJ^, IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 243 d her adopted aority having [ just arrived his deceased her own con- illy and Love, er banker*B, a 1 then, feeling that it was a ^er from their risk of perver- )uls) — she had and Catharine n vows of pro- )re the residue this arrange- y-minded liable ig to return to ant life of the t the little girl efore her. At wisely and ten- that the high- ful children of ose of a meek, humble, unselfish heart; and that no beauty of face or form is at; lovely or as lastmg as that which springs from a pure and pious soul-that Love promised her, with tears, to accept as pa- tiently as she could, her new Itfe m a lowlier sphere, and to strive with aU her powers to please God, and do His holy Will, among her commonplace relations. Faithfully, did she keep her childish promise. Though many a time, she failed through weak- ness; though, again and again, her spint grew sore and chafed under her tedious task, and amid uncongenial surroundings-with the help of God and o^ Lady, and the blessing of St. Arthony (to whom she had been consecrated in the Mission- scales at Lorette), she struggled bravely on- ripening, at hwt, into one of those rare creatures who quite forget themselves for others— into a noble, useful woman, whose soul was as beauti- ful as her face. - . i. « When she had become the joy of her house- hold, and the support and comfort of aU within the circle of her influence, young Louis St. Ange came to her from Montreal with a message from his aunt. . , , . .. Madame had corresponded with her favonto through her years of trial, and helped her m her struggle against self. She had shown Louis, (in his visits to the con- t \ 244 LOT Leslie's folks. ■ vent), all those beautiful, humble letters from Love, which reflected, like clear mirrors, the pura, generous soul of the girl. And now, when that excellent young man had grown to appreci- ate and love her adopted daughter, Eileen sent him to her to ask her to be his bride. His wooing, under such happy auspices, was a short and successful one. All agreed that so hand- some and amiable a pair of Christian lovers seemed made for one another ; and soon, there was a charming wedding in the old double house in Philadelphia. The marriage of Louis St. Ange and Marianne Love Leslie took place at a nuptial Mass in the new St. Mary's church, on Fourth street above Spruce, then recently builded by the Rev. Robert Harding. The French ambassador and his suite were present at the ceremony ; but none of those courtly grandees were prouder oi happier, on the occasion, than the bride's own dear honest rela- tives, all in their best, in the front pews. There were Lot and Prudence with their two young children : Timothy and Faith, with their three little Grindstones. Hope, in white muslin and wild roses, was the slender, modest bridesmaid, and "Willy, with his white satin favor in his buttonhole, the gentle- manly groomsman. mm letters from mirrors, the id now, when rn to appreci- r, Eileen sent e. uspices, was a 1 that so hand- "istian lovers d soon, there doable hoase md Marianne tl Mass in the street above B Rev. iiobert is suite were one of those appier, on the r honest rela- )ew8. ith their two 'h, with their OSes, was the lly, with his ), the gentle- IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 245 Tall, dark, and distinguished was the young Frenchman, Louis St. Ange, and beside him, the bride looked fair and lovely as an angel in her rich dress of ivory-tinted satin and her trailing veil of rare old lace — Madame's own wedding- dress and veil ; — and when Love and Louis jour- neyed home to Montreal, after the merry mar- riage-breakfast at the farm — Willy, their brother, went with them. Not to abide with them, how- ever, in the stately St. Ange mansion, where Love was to rule, thenceforth, as the second Madame St. Ange — reigning as a mistress where she had begged shelter as a child — but to enter the college directed by Father Eugene O'Con- nell, and there, at Timothy's expense, to begin his studies for the priesthood. All the golden threads .f our story being thus gathered up — all the tangled ends smoothed out, and the holy dead sleeping in their consecrated graves — we seem to see the Angel of God's Will, ''n the simple farmhouse at Philadelphia, as in the rich mansion, and hallowed Seminary in Montreal, waving his shining wings over our dear Swan Islanders, and shedding his priceless benedictions upon tb-) lives and destinies of those friends, high or lowly, old or young, whom we have known in this eventful narrative, as "Lot Leslie's Foll.6." '■^TT' ii >.4 i An Afterword with the Reader. If the woof of this little tale be partly of fic- tion — its warp is mainly of fact. Improbable as may seem its plot — unreal or exaggerated its personnel, the story of Lot Leslie's Folks is based upon records of unde- niable authenticity. It is certain, that a white family, closely re- sembling the Leslies in all material points, was captured by the Indians on an island, o£F the coast of Maine, in the summer of 1755. The father and mother were sold to Canadians — the first, to a baker ; whilst the youngest girl, a baby, was purchased from the Indians, and adopted by a Madame St. Auge, wife of a rich merchant of Montreal, whose only daughter had then recently died. Little Love Leslie (or Eleanor St. Auge, as she was christened in the Catholic church in Mon- treal), is really a creature of flesh and blood. Her brother Joseph, a captive in the St. Frangois tribe, was also adopted, later on, by the St. Auges. Love was stolen from her adopted parents (as we have narrated) by an agent i'rom New Eng- land — was recaptured by the Indians, and taken by them to the St. Frangois Mission. Eventually, she was returned, for a ransom, to Madame St. 246 mz: Reader, be partly of flc- plot — unreal or • story of Lot records of unde- raily, closely re- trial points, was island, off the f 1765. old to Canadians le youngest girl, he Indians, and e, wife of a rich ily daughter had St. Auge, as she church in Mon- lesh and blood, the St. Franpois )y the St. Auges. pted parents (as Irom New Eng- lians, and taken n. Eventually, to Madame St. AN AFTERWORD. 247 Auge, who had her carefully educated in the con- vents of the Ursuiines, both in Montreal and Quebec. While we admit that some small liber- ties have been taken in our story with the unities of time, place, and person, we respectfully chal- lenge the critic to prove that certain curious ar I thrilling experiences of the Leslies and their servants, therein set forth, have not their paral- lels in genuine colonial narratives of Captivi- ties among the savages in the eighteenth cen- tury — ^which, by the way, in vivid coloring and dramatic incident, usually read more like ro- mance, than sober reality. The names of Lot Ledie'a Folk« may not be actually recorded in the Diary (or Livre de Compte) of P6re Pierre Potior 8. J. — still extant, as Mr. Richard Elliott tells us,' in the archives of St. Mary's College, Montreal. Nevertheless, in their simple faith and purity of life, they are worthy to live, with others of their kind, in iV e fairest pages of our Church- history in pre-B jvolutionary days — in the annals of those earh religious Missions, of whose blessed precinr £s, it may be truly said : " Yon wver tread upon them, but you set You: fieet upon some ancient history." — THK AtJTHOR. > Last of tkt Hu -m Minion, m Ambr. Cath. Quarterly Rk- vnw, to which the writer is much 'ndebted. [ m mmm