gallows. She seemed to understand what they said to her, and turned meekly to obey their orders. But she stopped suddenly, gazed on the little blue bench, and said in a gasping tone, "Has William come?" When they told her no, a shudder seemed to go over her, and her pale face became still paler. A bit of looking-glass hung on the wall in front of her; and as she raised her head, she saw the little curl that had received her mother's caresses, and the first kiss of love. With a look of the most intense agony, she gave a loud groan, and burying her face in her hands, fell forward on the shoulder of the sheriff. THE NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. "So you are going to live in the same building with Hetty Turnpenny," said Mrs. Lane to Mrs. Fairweather. "You will find nobody to envy you. If her temper does not prove too much even for your good-nature, it will surprise all who know her. We lived there a year, and that is as long as anybody ever tried it." "Poor Hetty! replied Mrs. Fairweather, "she has had much to harden her. Her mother died too early for her to remember; her father was very severe with her, and the only lover she ever had, borrowed the savings of her years of toil, and spent them in dissipation. But Hetty, notwithstanding her sharp features, and sharper words, certainly has a kind heart. In the midst of her greatest poverty, many were the stockings she knit, and the warm waistcoats she made, for the poor drunken lover, whom she had too much good sense to marry. Then you know she feeds and clothes her brother's orphan child." Poor William had worked with the desperate energy of despair, and the governor, after brief delay, granted a pardon. But in those days, the facilities for travelling were few; and it happened that the country was inundated with heavy rains, which everywhere impeded his progress. He stopped neither for food nor rest; but everywhere the floods and broken roads hindered him. When he came to Darby Creek, which was usually fordable, it was swollen too high to be crossed, and it was some time before a boat could be obtained. In agony of mind he pressed onward, till his horse fell dead under him. Half frantic, he begged for another at any price, mounted, and rode furiously. From the top of a hill, he saw a crowd assembled round the place of execution. He waved his hand-pinched, and frightened all the time, as if she were kerchief, he shouted, he screamed. But in the excitement of the moment he was not heard or noticed. All eyes were fastened on the gallows; and soon the awful object came within his own vision. Father of mercies! There are a woman's garments floating in the air. There is a struggling, a quivering and all is still. With a shriek that pierced the ears of the multitude, the desperate rider plunged forward; his horse fell under him, and shouting, "A pardon! A pardon!" he rolled senseless on the ground. He came too late. The unhappy Elizabeth was dead. The poor young creature, guilty of too much heart, and too little brain to guide it, had been murdered by law, and men called it justice. Pale as a ghost, with hair suddenly whitened by excess of anguish, the wretched brother bent over the corpse of that beautiful sister whom he had loved so well. They spoke to him of resignation to God's will. He answered not; for it was not clear to him that the cruelty of man is the will of God. Reverently and tenderly, he cut from that fair brow the favourite little curl, twined about with so many sacred memories, and once a source of girlish innocent joy to the yearning heart, that slept so calmly now. He took the little bench from its cold corner in the prison, and gathering together his small personal property, he retired to a lonely cave in Dauphin county. He shunned all intercourse with his fellow men, and when spoken to, answered briefly and solemnly. There he died a few years ago, at an advanced age. He is well remembered in the region round about, as WILLIAM THE HERMIT. "If you call it feeding and clothing," replied Mrs. Lane. "The poor child looks cold, and chased by the east wind. I used to tell Miss Turnpenny she ought to be ashamed of herself, to keep the poor little thing at work all the time, without one minute to play. If she does but look at the cat, as it runs by the window, Aunt Hetty gives her a rap over the knuckles. I used to tell her she would make the girl just such another sour old crab as herself." "That must have been very improving to her disposition," replied Mrs. Fairweather, with a good-humoured smile. "But in justice to poor Aunt Hetty, you ought to remember that she had just such a cheerless childhood herself. Flowers grow where there is sunshine.” "I know you think everybody ought to live in the sunshine," rejoined Mrs. Lane; " and it must be confessed that you carry it with you wherever you go. If Miss Turnpenny has a heart, I dare say you will find it out, though I never could, and I never heard of any one else that could. All the families within hearing of her tongue call her the Neighbour-in-law." Certainly the prospect was not very encouraging; for the house Mrs. Fairweather proposed to occupy, was not only under the same roof with Miss Turnpenny, but the buildings had one common yard in the rear, and one common space for a garden in front. The very first day she took possession of her new habitation, she called on the Neighbour-in-law. Aunt Hetty had taken the precaution to extinguish the fire, lest the new neighbour should want hot water, before her own wood and coal arrived. Her first salutation was, "If you want any cold water, there's a pump across the street; I don't like to have my house slopped all over." "I am glad you are so tidy, neighbour Turnpenny," replied Mrs. Fairweather. "It is extremely pleasant to have neat neighbours. I will try to keep everything as bright as a new five cent piece, for I see that will please you. I came in merely to say good morning, and to ask if you could spare little Peggy to run up and down stairs for me, while I am getting my furniture in order. I will pay her sixpence an hour." Aunt Hetty had begun to purse up her mouth for a refusal; but the promise of sixpence an hour relaxed her features at once. Little Peggy sat knitting a stocking very diligently, with a rod lying on the table beside her. She looked up with timid wistfulness, as if the prospect of any change was like a release from prison. When she heard consent given, a bright colour flushed her cheeks. She was evidently of an impressible temperament, for good or evil. "Now mind and behave yourself," said Aunt Hetty; "and see that you keep at work the whole time. If I hear one word of complaint, you know what you'll get when you come home." The rose-colour subsided from Peggy's pale face, and she answered, "Yes, ma'am," very meekly. In the neighbour's house all went quite otherwise. No switch lay on the table, and instead of, "Mind how you do that: if you don't I'll punish you," she heard the gentle words, "There, dear, see how carefully you can carry that up stairs. Why, what a nice handy little girl you are!" Under this enlivening influence, Peggy worked like a bee, and soon began to hum much more agreeably than a bee. Aunt Hetty was always in the habit of saying, "Stop your noise and mind your work." But the new friend patted her on the head, and said, "What a pleasant voice the little girl has! It is like the birds in the field. By and by, you shall hear my music-box." This opened wide the windows of the poor little shut-up heart, so that the sunshine could stream in, and the birds fly in and out, carolling. The happy child tuned up like a lark, as she tripped lightly up and down stairs, on various household errands. But though she took heed to observe all the directions given her, her head was all the time filled with conjectures what sort of a thing a music-box might be. She was a little afraid the kind lady would forget to show it to her. She kept at work, however, and asked no questions; she only looked very curiously at everything that resembled a box. At last Mrs. Fairweather said, "I think your little feet must be tired, by this time. We will rest awhile, and eat some gingerbread." The child took the offered cake, with a humble little courtesy, and carefully held out her apron to prevent any crumbs from falling on the floor. But suddenly the apron dropped, and the crumbs were all strewn about. "Is that a little bird?" she exclaimed eagerly. Where is he? Is he in this room?" The new friend smiled, and told her that was the musicbox; and after awhile she opened it, and explained what made the sounds. Then she took out a pile of books from one of the baskets of goods, and told Peggy she might look at the pictures, till she called her. The little girl stepped forward eagerly to take them, and then drew back, as if afraid. "What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Fairweather; "I am very willing to trust you with the books. Í keep them on purpose to amuse children." Peggy looked down with her finger on her lip, and answered in a constrained voice, "Aunt Turnpenny won't like it if I play." "Don't trouble yourself about that. I will make it all right with Aunt Thus assured, Hetty," replied the friendly one. she gave herself up to the full enjoyment of the picture books; and when she was summoned to her work, she obeyed with a cheerful alacrity that would have astonished her stern relative. When the labours of the day were concluded, Mrs. Fairweather accompanied her home, paid for all the hours she had been absent, and warmly praised her docility and diligence. "It is lucky for her that she behaved so well," replied Aunt Hetty; "if I had heard any complaint, I should have given her a whipping, and sent her to bed without her supper." Poor little Peggy went to sleep that night with a lighter heart than she had ever felt, since she had been an orphan. Her first thought in the morning was whether the new neighbour would want her service again during the day. Her desire that it should be so, soon became obvious to Aunt Hetty, and excited an undefined jealousy and dislike of a person who so easily made herself beloved. Without exactly acknowledging to herself what were her own motives, she ordered Peggy to gather all the sweepings of the kitchen and court into a small pile, and leave it on the frontier line of her neighbour's premises. Peggy ventured to ask timidly whether the wind would not blow it about, and she received a box on the ear for her impertinence. It chanced that Mrs. Fairweather, quite unintentionally, heard the words and the blow. She gave Aunt Hetty's anger time enough to cool, then stepped out into the court, and after arranging divers little matters, she called aloud to her domestic, "Sally, how came you to leave this pile of dirt here? Didn't I tell you Miss Turnpenny was very neat? Pray make haste and sweep it up. I wouldn't have her see it on any account. I told her I would try to keep everything nice about the premises. She is so particular herself, and it is a comfort to have tidy neighbours." The girl, who had been previously instructed, smiled as she came out with brush and dust-pan, and swept quietly away the pile, that was intended as a declaration of border war. But another source of annoyance presented itself, which could not so easily be disposed of. Aunt Hetty had a cat, a lean scraggy animal, that looked as if she were often kicked and seldom fed; and Mrs. Fairweather had a fat, frisky little dog, always ready for a caper. He took a distaste to poor poverty-stricken Tab, the first time he saw her; and no coaxing could induce him to alter his opinion. His name was Pink, but he was anything but a pink of behaviour in his neighbourly relations. Poor Tab could never set foot out of doors without being saluted with a growl, and a short sharp bark, that frightened her out of her senses, and made her run into the house, with her fur all on end. If she even ventured to doze a little on her own door-step, the enemy was on the watch, and the moment her eyes closed, he would wake her with a bark and a box on the ear, and off he would run. Aunt Hetty vowed she would scald him. It was a burning shame, she said, for folks to keep dogs to worry their neighbours' cats. Mrs. Fairweather invited Tabby to dine, and made much of her, and patiently endeavoured to teach her dog to eat from the same plate. But Pink sturdily resolved he would be scalded first; that he would. He could not have been more obstinate in his opposition, if he and Tab had belonged to different sects in Christianity. While his mistress was patting Tab on the head, and reasoning the point with him, he would at times manifest a degree of indifference, amounting to toleration; but the moment he was left to his own free will, he would give the invited guest a hearty cuff with his paw, and send her home spitting like a small steam-engine. Aunt Hetty considered it her own peculiar privilege to cuff the poor animal, and it was too much for her patience to see Pink undertake to assist in making Tab unhappy. On one of these occasions she rushed into her neighbour's apartments, and faced Mrs. Fairweather, with one hand resting on her hip, and the forefinger of the other making very wrathful gesticulations. "I tell you what, madam, I won't put up with such treatment much longer," said she; "I'll poison that dog; see if I don't; and I shan't wait long, either, I can tell you. What you keep such an impudent little beast for, I don't know, without you do it on purpose to plague your neighbours." "I am really sorry he behaves so," replied Mrs. | Fairweather, mildly. "Poor Tab !" "Poor Tab!" screamed Miss Turnpenny. "What do you mean by calling her poor? Do you mean to fling it up to me that my cat don't have enough to eat?" "I didn't think of such a thing," replied Mrs. Fairweather. "I called her poor Tab, because Pink plagues her so, that she has no peace of her life. I agree with you, neighbour Turnpenny; it is not right to keep a dog that disturbs the neighbourhood. I am attached to poor little Pink, because he belongs to my son, who has gone to sea. I was in hopes he would soon leave off quarrelling with the cat; but if he won't be neighbourly, I will send him out in the country to board. Sally, will you bring me one of the pies we baked this morning? I should like to have Miss Turnpenny taste of them.” The crabbed neighbour was helped abundantly; and while she was eating the pie, the friendly matron edged in many a kind word concerning little Peggy, whom she praised as a remarkably capable, industrious child. "I am glad you find her so," rejoined Aunt Hetty: "I should get precious little work out of her, if I didn't keep a switch in sight." "I manage children pretty much as the man did the donkey," replied Mrs. Fairweather. "Not an inch would the poor beast stir, for all his master's beating and thumping. But a neighbour tied some. fresh turnips to a stick, and fastened them so that they swung directly before the donkey's nose, and off he set on a brisk trot, in hopes of overtaking them." Aunt Hetty, without observing how very closely the comparison applied to her own management of Peggy, said, "That will do very well for folks that have plenty of turnips to spare." "For the matter of that," answered Mrs. Fairweather, "whips cost something, as well as turnips; and since one makes the donkey stand still, and the other makes him trot, it is easy to decide which is the most economical. But, neighbour Turnpenny, since you like my pies so well, pray take one home with you. I am afraid they will mould before we can eat them up." Aunt Hetty had come in for a quarrel, and she was astonished to find herself going out with a pie. "Well, Mrs. Fairweather," said she, "you are a neighbour. I thank you a thousand times." When she reached her own door, she hesitated for an instant, then turned back, pie in hand, to say, "Neighbour Fairweather, you needn't trouble yourself about sending Pink away. It's natural you should like the little creature, seeing he belongs to your son. I'll try to keep Tab in doors, and perhaps after a while they will agree better." "I hope they will," replied the friendly matron. "We will try them awhile longer, and if they persist in quarrelling, I will send the dog into the country." Pink, who was sleeping in a chair, stretched himself and gaped. His kind mistress patted him on the head. "Ah, you foolish little beast," said she, "what's the use of plaguing poor Tab?" "Well, I do say," observed Sally, smiling, "you are a master woman for stopping a quarrel." "I learned a good lesson when I was a little girl," rejoined Mrs. Fairweather. "One frosty morning, I was looking out of the window into my father's barn-yard, where stood many cows, oxen, and horses, waiting to drink. It was one of those cold snapping mornings, when a slight thing irritates both man and beast. The cattle all stood very still and meek, till one of the cows attempted to turn round. In making the attempt, she happened to hit her next neighbour; whereupon the neighbour kicked and hit another. In five minutes, the whole herd were kicking and hooking each other, with all fury. Some lay sprawling on the ice, others were slipping about, with their hind heels reared in the air. My mother laughed, and said, 'See what comes of kicking when you're hit. Just so I've seen one cross word set a whole family by the ears, some frosty morning.' Afterward, if my brothers or myself were a little irritable, she would say, 'Take care, children. Remember how the fight in the barn-yard began. Never give a kick for a hit, and you will save yourself and others a deal of trouble." " That same afternoon, the sunshiny dame stepped into Aunt Hetty's rooms, where she found Peggy sewing, as usual, with the eternal switch on the table beside her. "I am obliged to go to Harlem, on business," said she: "I feel rather lonely without company, and I always like to have a child with me. If you will oblige me by letting Peggy go, I will pay her fare in the omnibus." "She has her spelling lesson to get before night," replied Aunt Hetty. "I don't approve of young folks going a pleasuring, and neglecting their education." "Neither do I," rejoined her neighbour; "but I think there is a great deal of education that is not found in books. The fresh air will make Peggy grow stout and active. I prophesy that she will do great credit to your bringing up." The sugared words, and the remembrance of the sugared pie, touched the soft place in Miss Turnpenny's heart, and she told the astonished Peggy that she might go and put on her best gown and bonnet. The poor child began to think that this new neighbour was certainly one of the good fairies she read about in the picture books. The excursion was enjoyed as only a city child can enjoy the country. The world seems such a pleasant place, when the fetters are off, and Nature folds the young heart lovingly on her bosom! A flock of real birds and two living butterflies put the little orphan in a perfect ecstasy. She ran and skipped. One could see that she might be graceful, if she were only free. She pointed to the fields covered with dandelions, and said, "See how pretty! It looks as if the stars had come down to lie on the grass." Ah, our little stinted Peggy has poetry in her, though Aunt Hetty never found it out. Every human soul has the germ of some flowers within, and they would open, if they could only find sunshine and free air to expand in. Mrs. Fairweather was a practical philosopher, in her own small way. She observed that Miss Turnpenny really liked a pleasant tune; and when winter came, she tried to persuade her that singing would be excellent for Peggy's lungs, and perhaps keep her from going into a consumption. "My nephew, James Fairweather, keeps a singing school," said she; "and he says he will teach her gratis. You need not feel under great obligation; for her voice will lead the whole school, and her ear is so quick, it will be no trouble at all to teach her. Perhaps you would go with us sometimes, neighbour Turnpenny? It is very pleasant to hear the children's voices." The cordage of Aunt Hetty's mouth relaxed into a smile. She accepted the invitation, and was so much pleased, that she went every Sunday evening. The simple tunes, and the sweet young voices, fell like dew on her dried-up heart, and greatly aided the genial influence of her neighbour's example. The rod silently disappeared from the table. If Peggy was disposed to be idle, it was only necessary to say, "When you have finished your work, you may go and ask whether Mrs. Fairweather wants any errands done." Bless me, how the fingers flew! Aunt Hetty had learned to use turnips instead of the cudgel. When spring came, Mrs. Fairweather busied herself with planting roses and vines. Miss Turn penny readily consented that Peggy should help her, and even refused to take any pay from such a good neighbour. But she maintained her own opinion that it was a mere waste of time to cultivate flowers. The cheerful philosopher never disputed the point; but she would sometimes say, "I have no room to plant this rose-bush. Neighbour Turnpenny, would you be willing to let me set it on your side of the yard? It will take very little room, and will need no care." At another time, she would say, "Well, really my ground is too full. Here is a root of Lady's-delight. How bright and pert it looks. It seems a pity to throw it away. If you are willing, I will let Peggy plant it in what she calls her garden. It will grow of itself, without any care, and scatter seeds, that will come up and blossom in all the chinks of the bricks. I love it. It is such a bright good-natured little thing." Thus by degrees, the crabbed maiden found herself surrounded by flowers; and she even declared, of her own accord, that they did look pretty. One day, when Mrs. Lane called upon Mrs. Fairweather, she found the old weed-grown yard bright and blooming. Tab, quite fat and sleek, was asleep, in the sunshine, with her paw on Pink's neck, and little Peggy was singing at her work, as blithe as a bird. "How cheerful you look here!" said Mrs. Lane. "And so you have really taken the house for another year. Pray, how do you manage to get on with the Neighbour-in-law ?" "I find her a very kind obliging neighbour," replied Mrs. Fairweather. "Well, this is a miracle!" exclaimed Mrs. Lane. "Nobody but you would have undertaken to thaw out Aunt Hetty's heart." "That is probably the reason why it was never thawed," rejoined her friend. "I always told you, that not having enough of sunshine was what ailed the world. Make people happy, and there will not be half the quarrelling, or a tenth part of the wickedness, there is." From this gospel of joy preached and practised, nobody derived so much benefit as little Peggy. Her nature, which was fast growing crooked and knotty, under the malign influence of constraint and fear, straightened up, budded and blossomed, in the genial atmosphere of cheerful kindness. Her affections and faculties were kept in such pleasant exercise, that constant lightness of heart made her almost handsome. The young musicteacher thought her more than almost handsome; for her affectionate soul shone more beamingly on him than on others, and love makes all things beautiful. When the orphan removed to her pleasant little cottage, on her wedding-day, she threw her arms round the blessed missionary of sunshine, and said, "Ah, thou dear good Aunt, it is thou who hast made my life Fairweather." PU-KEE-SHE-NO-QUA was famous among her tribe for her eloquent manner of relating stories. She treasured up all the old traditions, and though she repeated them truly, they came from her mouth in brighter pictures than from others, because she tipped all the edges with her own golden fancy. One might easily conjecture that there was poetry in the souls of her ancestry also; for they had given her a name which signifies, "I light from flying." At fourteen years old, she was shut up in a hut by herself, to fast and dream, according to the custom of the Indians. She dreamed that the Morning Star came down and nestled in her bosom, like a bird; therefore she chose it for the Manitou, or Protecting Spirit of her life, and named her first-born son Wah-bu-nung-o, an Indian word for the Morning Star. The boy was handsome, brave and gentle; and his childhood gave early indications that he inherited the spiritual and poetic tendencies of his mother. At the threshold of his young life, he too was set apart to fast and dream. He dreamed of a wild rose-bush, in full bloom, and heard a voice saying, "She will wait for thee in the Spirit-land. Do not forsake her." The Wild Rose was accordingly adopted as his Manitou. In a neighbouring wigwam was a girl named O-ge-bu-no-qua, which signifies the Wild Rose. When she, at twelve years old, was sent into retirement to fast and dream, she dreamed of a Star; but she could tell nothing about it, only that it was mild, and looked at her. She was a charming child, and grew into beautiful maidenhood. Her dark cheek looked like a rich brown autumn leaf, faintly tinged with crimson. Her large eyes, shaded with deep black fringe, had a shy and somewhat mournful tenderness of expression. Her voice seemed but the echo of her glance, it was so low and musical in tone, so plaintive in its cadences. Her well-rounded figure was pliant and graceful, and her motions were like those of some pretty, timid animal, that has always stepped to sylvan sounds. The handsome boy was but two years older than the beautiful girl. In childhood, they swung together in the same boughs, hand in hand they clambered the rocks, and gathered the flowers and berries of the woods. Living in such playful familiarity with the deer and the birds, the young blood flowed fresh and strong, their forms were vigorous, and their motions flexile and free. The large dark eyes of Wah-bu-nung-o were tender and sad, and had a peculiarly deep, spiritual, inward-looking expression, as if he were the destined poet and prophet of his tribe. But the lofty carriage of his head, the Apollo curve of his parted lips, and his aquiline nose, with open well-defined nostrils, expressed the pride and daring of a hunter and a warrior. It was very natural that the maiden should sometimes think it a beautiful coincidence that a Star was her guardian spirit, and this handsome friend of her childhood was named the Morning Star. And when he told her of the Wild Rose of his dream, had he not likewise some prophetic thoughts? Fortunately for the free and beautiful growth of their love, they lived out of the pale of civilization. There was no Mrs. Smith to remark how they looked at each other, and no Mrs. Brown to question the propriety of their rambles in the woods. The simple philosophy of the Indians had never taught that nature was a sin, and therefore nature was troubled with no sinful consciousness. When Wah-bu-nung-o hunted squirrels, O-ge-bu-no-qua thought it no harm to gather basket-stuff in the same woods. There was a lovely crescent-shaped island opposite the village, profusely covered with trees and vines, and carpeted with rich grasses and mosses, strewn with flowers. Clumps of young birches shone among the dark shrubbery, like slender columns of silver, and willows stooped so low to look in the mirror of the waters, that their graceful tresses touched the stream. Here, above all other places, did the maiden love to go to gather twigs for baskets, and the young man to select wood for his bows and arrows. Often, when day was declining, and the calm river reflected the western sky, glowing with amber light, and fleckered with little fleecy rose-coloured clouds, his canoe might be seen gliding across the waters. Sometimes O-ge-bu-no-qua was waiting for him on the island, and sometimes he steered the boat for the grove of willows, while she urged it forward with the light swift stroke of her paddle. Civilized man is little to be trusted under such circumstances; but Nature, subjected to no false restraints, manifests her innate modesty, and even in her child-like abandonment to impulse, rebukes by her innocence the unclean self-consciousness of artificial society. With a quiet grave tenderness, the young Indian assisted his beautiful companion in her tasks, or spoke to her from time to time, as they met by brook or grove, in the pursuit of their different avocations. Her Manitou, the Morning Star of the sky, could not have been more truly her protecting spirit. It was on her sixteenth birth-day that they, for the first time, lingered on the island after twilight. The Indians, with an untaught poetry of modesty, never talk of love under the bright staring gaze of day. Only amid the silent shadows do they yield to its gentle influence. O-ge-bu-no-qua was born with the roses; therefore this birth-night of their acknowledged love was, in that beautiful month, named by the Indians "the Moon of Flowers." It was a lovely evening, and surpassingly fair was the scene around them. The picturesque little village of wigwams, on the other side of the river, gave a smiling answer to the sun's farewell. The abrupt heights beyond were robed in the richest foliage, through which the departing rays streamed like a golden shower. In the limitless forest, the tall trees were of noble proportions, because they had room enough to grow upward and outward with a strong free grace. In the flowery glades of the islands, flocks of pigeons, and other smaller birds, cooed and chirped. Soon all subsided into moonsilence, and the elysian stillness was interrupted only by the faint ripple of the sparkling river, the lone cry of the whippowill, or the occasional plash of some restless bull-frog. The lovers sat side by side on a grassy knoll. An evening breeze gave them a gentle kiss as it passed, and brought them a love-token of fragrance from a rose-bush that grew at their feet. Wah-bu-nung-o gathered one of the blossoms, by the dim silvery light, and placing it in the hand of O-ge-bu-no-qua, he said, in a voice tender and bashful as a young girl's: "Thou knowest the Great Spirit has given me the wild rose for a Manitou. I have told thee my dream; but I have never told thee, thou sweet rose of my life, how sadly I interpret it." She nestled closer in his bosom, and gazing earnestly on a bright star in the heavens, the Manitou of her own existence, she murmured, almost inaudibly, "How dost thou?" His brave strong arm encircled her in a closer embrace, as he answered with gentle solemnity, "The Rose will go to the Spirit-land, and leave her Star to mourn alone.” The maiden's eyes filled with tears, as she replied, "But the Rose will wait for her Star. Thus said the voice of the dream." They sat silently leaning on each other, till Wahbu-nung-o took up the pipe, that lay beside him, and began to play. Birds sing only during their |