and sensibility that were suited to her character, while
the impression made on the simpler mind of her sister was perhaps less
lively, though it might well have proved more lasting.

"Oh! Judith," exclaimed the weak minded girl, as soon as their first
care had been bestowed on sufferer. "Father went for scalps, himself,
and now where is his own? The Bible might have foretold this dreadful
punishment!"

"Hush, Hetty--hush, poor sister--He opens his eyes; he may hear and
understand you. 'Tis as you say and think, but 'tis too dreadful to
speak."

"Water," ejaculated Hutter, as it might be by a desperate effort, that
rendered his voice frightfully deep and strong for one as near death as
he evidently was--"Water--foolish girls--will you let me die of thirst?"

Water was brought and administered to the sufferer; the first he
had tasted in hours of physical anguish. It had the double effect of
clearing his throat and of momentarily reviving his sinking system. His
eyes opened with that anxious, distended gaze which is apt to accompany
the passage of a soul surprised by death, and he seemed disposed to
speak.

"Father," said Judith, inexpressibly pained by his deplorable situation,
and this so much the more from her ignorance of what remedies ought
to be applied--"Father, can we do any thing for you? Can Hetty and I
relieve your pain?"

"Father!" slowly repeated the old man. "No, Judith; no, Hetty--I'm no
father. She was your mother, but I'm no father. Look in the chest--Tis
all there--give me more water."

The girls complied, and Judith, whose early recollections extended
farther back than her sister's, and who on every account had more
distinct impressions of the past, felt an uncontrollable impulse of joy
as she heard these words. There had never been much sympathy between her
reputed father and herself, and suspicions of this very truth had often
glanced across her mind, in consequence of dialogues she had overheard
between Hutter and her mother. It might be going too far to say she had
never loved him, but it is not so to add that she rejoiced it was no
longer a duty. With Hetty the feeling was different. Incapable of
making all the distinctions of her sister, her very nature was full
of affection, and she had loved her reputed parent, though far less
tenderly than the real parent, and it grieved her now to hear him
declare he was not naturally entitled to that love. She felt a double
grief, as if his death an