eigh as much as an ox of
the same age.

Collecting the scattered remnants of the unfortunate Indian, who was no
other than the old woman's son, Lawrence covered them over with leaves
and sticks. He then skinned the bear and cut off its claws, which he
carried away as trophies, along with one or two choice steaks cut from
the creature's flank. He also collected the weapons and part of the
dress of the Indian, with which he returned to the camp.

"Heyday! Lawrence, what have you got there, lad?" said Reuben, as his
son came up and threw the bundle on the ground.

"A brown bear, father."

"Well done!" exclaimed Reuben, with a look of pride, for although his
son had shot many a black bear in the forest, he had never before stood
face to face with such a monster as that whose skin and claws now lay at
his feet.

"It would have been well, father," said Lawrence gravely, "if the man
who first saw this had owned a gun. His arrows were no better than
needles in such a hide. See here!"

He drew from his breast the bloody portions of dress which had belonged
to the slaughtered Indian.

"The son of the old woman has gone to the happy hunting-grounds," said
Swiftarrow, referring to the heaven of the Indian, as he lifted and
examined the dress.

"Ay, ay," said Reuben sadly, "'tis the chances of the wilderness. You'd
better tell the poor old creetur', Swiftarrow; you understand her ways
and lingo better than me."

Silently the Indian went to the old woman, and laid the bloody garments
before her. At first she did not understand what had happened.
Suddenly the truth flashed upon her, and she looked quickly up into the
grave countenance of the Indian, but death and sorrow appeared to have
already done their worst on her, for she neither spoke nor wept for some
time. She took up the shreds of cloth and turned them over tenderly;
but neither sign nor groan escaped her. Evidently she had been already
so stunned by the horrors which had surrounded her for some time, that
this additional blow did not tell--at least, not at first--but Reuben
observed, while trying to comfort her some time afterwards, that a few
tears were coursing slowly down her withered cheeks.

That night, round the camp-fire, the pioneers held earnest counsel, and
resolved, sadly but firmly, that their projected journey must be given
up for that season.

"It's a hard thing to do," said Reuben, as he lay at full length before
the fire after supper,