inst those who have loved you,
and cherished you so fondly? Often have you told me that your Indian
wife and child are dearer to you than all that you have left behind you
at New Plymouth. But tell it to me again! Let me hear you say again
that you are happy here, and will never desert us; for when I see that
sorrowful look in your dear eyes, and remember all you have lost, and
still are losing, to live in a wilderness with wild and savage men, my
heart misgives me; and I feel that you were never made for such a life,
and that your love is far too precious to be given for ever to an
Indian girl.'

The smile returned to Henrich's eyes, as he listened to this fond
appeal; and he almost reproached himself for ever suffering regret for
the blessings he had lost to arise in his mind, when those he still
possessed were so many and so great.

'Dear Oriana, you need not fear,' he replied, affectionately; 'I speak
the truth of my heart when I tell you that I would not exchange my
Indian home, and sacrifice my Indian squaw, and my little half-bred
son, for all the comforts and pleasures of civilized life--no, not even
to be restored to the parents I still love so dearly, and the brother
and sister who played with me in childhood. But still I yearn to look
upon their faces again, and to hear once more their words of love. I
well know how they have all mourned for me: and I know how, even after
so many years have passed, they would rejoice at finding me again!'

'Yes; they must indeed have mourned for you, Henrich. That must have
been a sad night to them when Coubitant bore you away. But I owe all
the happiness of my life to that cruel deed--and can I regret it? If my
"white brother" had not come to our camp, I should have lived and died
an ignorant Indian squaw--I should have known no thing of true
religion, or of the Christian's God--and,' continued Oriana, smiling at
her husband with a sweetness and archness of expression that made her
countenance really beautiful, 'I should never have known my Henrich.'

'Child!' said old Tisquantum, rousing himself from the half-dreamy
reverie in which he had been sitting, and enjoying the warm sunbeams as
they fell on his now feeble limbs, and long white hair. 'Child, are you
talking again of Henrich leaving us? It is wrong of you to doubt him.
My son has given me his word that he will never take you from me until
Mahneto recalls my spirit to himself, and I dwell again with my
fathers.