er seeing her again. He, who had
always been so fearless, was now afraid of the day when he should
not return and she would be once more alone.

So he let his younger and eager followers do some of the battling,
though he never relaxed his vigilance, never took off his armor, so
to speak. But now he spent long days and quiet nights with Lydia
and his children. They entertained many guests, for the young people
were vigorous and laughter-loving, and George and Lydia never grew
old, never grew weary, never grew commonplace. All the year round
guests came to the hospitable country house--men and women of
culture, of learning, of artistic tastes, of congenial habits.
Scientists, authors, artists, all made their pilgrimages to this
unique household, where refinement and much luxury, and always a
glad welcome from the chief and his English wife, made their visits
long remembered. And in some way or other, as their children grew
up, those two seemed to come closer together once more. They walked
among the trees they had once loved in those first bridal days,
they rested by the river shore, they wandered over the broad meadows
and bypaths of the old estate, they laughed together frequently like
children, and always and ever talked of and acted for the good of
the Indian people who were so unquestionably the greatest interest
in their lives, outside their own children. But one day, when the
beautiful estate he was always so proud of was getting ready to
smile under the suns of spring, he left her just when she needed
him most, for their boys had plunged forward into the world of
business in the large cities, and she wanted a strong arm to lean
on. It was the only time he failed to respond to her devoted
nursing, but now she could not bring him back from the river's
brink, as she had so often done before. Cold had settled in all the
broken places of his poor body, and he slipped away from her, a
sacrifice to his fight against evil on the altar of his nation's
good. In his feverish wanderings he returned to the tongue of his
childhood, the beautiful, dulcet Mohawk. Then recollecting and
commanding himself, he would weakly apologize to Lydia with: "I
forgot; I thought it was my mother," and almost his last words were,
"It must be by my mother's side," meaning his resting-place. So his
valiant spirit went fearlessly forth.

* * * * *

"Do you ever think, dear," said Lydia to her youngest child, som