lse. If
separated from her, even for a few moments, she would run back again,
and seizing her gown, glance up with an imploring look, as if begging to
be protected from some imaginary danger--she would not even trust
herself with me, and seemed to fancy that I might hurt her. Possibly
she might have been ill-treated by the native children, and was unable
to distinguish the difference. Gentle and careful treatment, however,
had its due effect on her, and her fears were gradually allayed.

At length one day she, of her own accord, took my hand, and looking into
my face said, "Girl not hurt poor Maud." These were the first words we
had heard her utter. Until then also we were ignorant of her name.

Putting my arms round her neck I kissed her, and answered, "No indeed I
will not hurt you, but I will treat you as a dear sister, and love you
very very much."

A faint smile passed over her countenance, as if she comprehended my
answer. After that she would remain contentedly with me--still her
mind, for some time longer, continued apparently in the same state as at
first. My father and mother, however, felt sure that her senses would
ultimately be restored. They were not mistaken; but even when she had
begun to speak, she made no allusion to the circumstances of the
massacre, or her life among the natives, and we forbore to ask her any
questions.

When at last we landed here, her alarm at seeing the natives was very
great, and my father was afraid that it would cause her mind to relapse
into its former state. By doing all we could to re-assure and cheer
her, no ill effects occurred. When once we were settled, and she had
got accustomed to the scenery, and the appearance of the people, her
improvement was more rapid. In course of time her mind and bodily
health were perfectly restored. On seeing me at my lessons, she showed
a strong wish to join me, and though she had forgotten even her letters,
if she had ever known them, she made rapid progress, so that she was
soon able to read fluently, when she eagerly perused every book my
father would allow her to have from his library. Even then, however,
she could give no account of her former life, and we knew no more of
little Maud than at first. My father and mother treated her as they
would a daughter, while I looked upon her and loved her as a younger
sister.

We had now been upwards of three years at the Station. My father had
laboured on in faith, as a missi