ther and me. We can, indeed, but poorly spare you from the work at
this season; yet Seth will be able to look after the more urgent needs
of the farm while you are absent, while he would prove quite useless on
such a mission as this. Do not worry, Mary. Friend Burns is well
acquainted with all that western country, and he tells me there is
scarcely a week that parties of soldiers, or friendly Indians, do not
pass along the trail, and that by waiting at Hawkins's place for a few
days John will be sure to find some one with whom he may companion on
the long journey westward. He would himself have accompanied him, but
must first bear a message to friends at Vincennes. It is now some
weeks since Roger Matherson died, and we shall prove unworthy of our
trust if we delay longer in sending for his daughter."

Though my mother was a western woman, patient and long habituated to
sacrifice and peril, still her eyes, fixed upon my face, were filled
with tears, and the color had deserted her cheeks.

"I know not why it should be so, David," she urged softly; "but in my
heart I greatly fear this trip for John. Yet you have ever found me
ready to yield wherever it seemed best, and I doubt not you are right
in your decision."

At any other time I should have gone to her with words of comfort and
good cheer; but now my ambition was so aroused by this impending
adventure as to permit me to think of nothing else.

"Is it so very far, father, to where I must go?" I questioned, eagerly.
"Where is this Fort Dearborn, and how am I to journey in reaching
there? 'T is no garrison of which I have ever heard."

"Bring me the map your mother made of this country, and the regions to
the westward," he said. "I am not over clear in regard to the matter
myself, although friend Burns, who claims to know all that country,
gave me some brief description; but I found him most chary of speech."

I got the map out of the great square cupboard in the corner, and
spread the paper flat upon the table, placing knives at each corner to
hold it open. I rolled his chair up before it, and the three of us
bent our heads over the map together, our faces glowing in the candle
flame. It was a copy made by a quill from a great government map my
mother had seen somewhere in her journeying westward; and, though only
a rude design, it was not badly done, and was sufficiently accurate for
our purpose. Much of it was still blank; yet the main open trails had