of the head; "thee
would not have me back in the Settlements, to scandalise them that is of
my faith! No, friend; my lot is cast in the woods, and thee must not ask
me again to leave them. And, friend, thee must not think I have served
thee for the lucre of money or gain: for, truly, these things is now to
me as nothing. The meat that feeds me, the skins that cover, the leaves
that make my bed, are all in the forest around me, to be mine when I want
them; and what more can I desire? Yet, friend if thee thinks theeself
obliged by whatever I have done for thee, I would ask of thee one favour,
that thee can grant."

"A hundred!" said the Virginian, warmly.

"Nay, friend," muttered Nathan, with both a warning and beseeching look,
"all that I ask is, that thee shall say nothing of me that should
scandalise and disparage the faith to which I was born."

"I understand you," said Roland, "and will remember your wish."

"And now, friend," continued Nathan, "do thee take theeself to the
haunts of thee fellows, the habitations of them that is honest and
peaceful,--thee, and the good maiden, thee cousin; for, truly, it is not
well, neither for thee nor for her,--and especially for her, that is
feeble and fearful,--to dwell nigh to where murdering Injuns abound."

"Yet go with us, good Nathan," said Edith, adding her voice to the
entreaties of her kinsman: "there shall be none to abuse or find fault
with you."

"Thee is a good maid," said Nathan, surveying her with, an interest that
became mournful as he spoke. "When thee goes back to thee father's house,
thee will find them that will gladden at thee coming; and hearts will
yearn with joy over thee young and lovely looks. Thee will smile upon
them, and they will be happy. Such," he added, with deep emotion, "such
might have been _my_ fate, had the Injun axe spared me but a single
child. But it is not so; there is none left to look upon me with smiles
and rejoicing,--none to welcome me from the field and the forest with the
voice of love--no, truly, truly,--there is not one,--not one." And as he
spoke, his voice faltered, his lip quivered, and his whole countenance
betrayed the workings of a bereaved and mourning spirit.

"Think not of this," said Roland, deeply affected, as his cousin also
was, by this unexpected display of feeling in the rude wanderer: "the
gratitude of those you have so well served, shall be to you in place of a
child's affection. We will never forget our o