r, in terms so new and strange, she almost felt offended. She
did not, however, remark on her friend's allusion to herself, but
turned the discourse to Mailah's sad prophecy of her own early death,
which she knew could only be grounded on one of the wild superstitions
of her race.

'Why do you talk of dying, Mailah?' she asked. 'You are young and
strong; and you may again be happy. Why do you say you will leave your
child, and go to the land of spirits?'

'The death-bird[*] called to me last night, as I sat at the open door
of the hut, and looked at the moon, and thought how its soft light was
guiding my Lincoya on long, long, journey, to the everlasting hunting
fields of his fathers. Cheepai-Peethees called me twice from the tree
that hung over the lodge; but when I called to it again, and whistled
clearly, it made no answer. I heard it the day before the Crees
destroyed our village. It called my husband then, and would not answer
him; and in two days he was slain. The death-bird is never mistaken.'

[Footnote: A small owl called _Cheepai-Peethees,_ or the _death-bird,_
which the Indians attach the superstition here alluded to, and believe,
if it does not answer to their whistle, it denotes their speedy death.]

'O, Mailah!' replied the young Christian squaw, 'say not so. Surely it
is not thus that the great Mahneto calls His children to come to Him.
Once I believed all these Indian stories; but now I know that they are
false and vain. I know that our lives, and all things that befall us,
are in the hands of the wise and good God--the Mahneto of the
Christians and of the red men too. And now I have no fear of any of
those strange sounds that used to make me sad, and terrify me with
thoughts of coming evil. I most teach you to believe as I do now: or,
rather, my _white brother_ shall teach you; for he knows the words of
Mahneto himself. See, Mailah! There my brother comes--let us go to meet
him.'

A flush of joy mounted to the clear olive cheek of Oriana as she said
these words, and she sprang to her feet with the lightness of a fawn.
Mailah rose more gently, and replacing her infant in the pouch, slung
it over her shoulder, and followed her friend, softly whispering in her
ear, 'The white stranger is your Lincoya.'

The Indian beauty smiled, and blushed more deeply: but she did not
bound across the glade to meet Henrich as she had purposed doing. She
drew her slender figure to its full height, and stood still;