nther's glance at his discovered victim. Tears followed,
and, for a moment, the voice was choked.

"Why you woman?" demanded Nick, fiercely. "Save all 'e scalp!"

This strange interruption failed to produce any effect. First Beekman
yielded; Maud and Willoughby followed; until Mr. Woods, himself, unable
to resist the double assaults of the power of sympathy and his own
affection, closed the book and wept like a child.

It required minutes for the mourners to recover their self-command.
When the latter returned, however, all knelt on the grass, the line of
soldiers included, and the closing prayers were raised to the throne of
God.

This act of devotion enabled the mourners to maintain an appearance of
greater tranquillity until the graves were filled. The troops advanced,
and fired three volleys over the captain's grave, when all retired
towards the Hut. Maud had caught little Evert from the arms of his
father, and, pressing him to her bosom, the motherless babe seemed
disposed to slumber there. In this manner she walked away, attended
closely by the father, who now cherished his boy as an only treasure.

Willoughby lingered the last at the grave, Nick alone remaining near
him. The Indian had been struck by the exhibition of deep sorrow that
he had witnessed, and he felt an uneasiness that was a little
unaccountable to himself. It was one of the caprices of this strange
nature of ours, that he should feel a desire to console those whom he
had so deeply injured himself. He drew near to Robert Willoughby,
therefore, and, laying a hand on the latter's arm, drew his look in the
direction of his own red and speaking face.

"Why so sorry, major?" he said. "Warrior nebber die but once--
_must_ die sometime."

"There lie my father, my mother, and my only sister, Indian--is not
that enough to make the stoutest heart bend? You knew them, too, Nick--
did you ever know better?"

"Squaw good--both squaw good--Nick see no pale-face squaw he like so
much."

"I thank you, Nick! This rude tribute to the virtues of my mother and
sister, is far more grateful to me than the calculating and regulated
condolence of the world."

"No squaw _so_ good as ole one--she, all heart--love every body,
but self."

This was so characteristic of his mother, that Willoughby was startled
by the sagacity of the savage, though reflection told him so long an
acquaintance with the family must have made a dog familiar with this
beautiful trait in