er,
that a little motherless, homeless outcast was thrown upon her love, she
was happy, and her sweet voice was again heard singing snatches of wild
Indian melodies at the door of her hut, and about her work.

For some weeks Orikama drooped her head, and her pale cheek looked
indeed like the flower whose name had been given her; and Ponawtan
grieved when she beheld her languid step, and the sad expression in her
large speaking eyes, or when she found her weeping in a corner of the
hut. But childhood is happily elastic in its feelings, and again the
merry glance came back to her eye, and the little feet danced upon the
green grass, and the soft baby voice caught up the Indian words she
heard, and learned to call her kind protectors by the holy name of
father and mother.

And was the memory of the past blotted out from her mind? Not
so--indelibly painted there, was the image of a whitewashed cottage,
overgrown with vines, near which a noble river rolled, seen through an
opening of the trees; and of a kind father, who wore no plumes in his
hair, who bore no bow and arrows, whom she had run to greet, and on
whose knee she daily sat, listening to beautiful tales. And of a sweet,
pretty mother, in whose face she loved to look, who taught her to say a
prayer, kneeling with clasped hands; especially did she think of her as
she appeared on that last evening, when she kissed her good-night, and
sang her to sleep with a gentle lullaby. And never did she forget to
kneel down, before she lay upon her bed of sweet grass, and with folded
hands and reverent look to recite her evening prayer. What though the
full meaning of the words did not enter into her mind--with childlike
piety she looked upward to her Maker, and impressions of purity and
goodness were made upon her heart. In the beautiful language of Keble,

"Oh, say not, dream not, heavenly notes
To childish ears are vain,
That the young mind at random floats,
And cannot reach the strain.

Dim or unheard, the words may fell,
And yet the heaven-taught mind
May learn the sacred air, and all
The harmony unwind.

And if some tones be false or low,
What are all prayers beneath,
But cries of babes, that cannot know
Half the deep thoughts they breathe.

In his own words we Christ adore,
But angels, as we speak,
Higher above our meaning soar
Than we o'er children weak:

An