he said, "as may be she will, just put out any victuals you've
a-got for the poor crittur; though may be she wont come, for they Injins
be onkimmon skeary." Susan wondered at his taking an interest in the
woman, and often thought of that dark look she had noticed, and of Tom's
unwillingness to speak on the subject. She never knew that on his last
hunting expedition, when hiding some skins which he intended to fetch on
his return, he had observed an Indian watching him, and had shot him,
with as little mercy as he would have shown to a wolf. On Tom's return
to the spot, the body was gone; and in the soft, damp soil was the mark
of an Indian squaw's foot; and by its side, a little child's. He was
sorry then for the deed he had done; he thought of the grief of the poor
widow, and how it would be possible for her to live until she could
reach her tribe, who were far, far distant, at the foot of the Rocky
Mountains; and now to feel, that, through his means, too, she had lost
her child, put thoughts into his mind that had never before found a
place there. He thought that one God had formed the red man as well as
the white--of the souls of the many Indians hurried into eternity by his
unerring rifle; and they, perhaps, were more fitted for their "happy
hunting grounds," than he for the white man's heaven. In this state of
mind, every word his wife had said to him seemed a reproach, and he was
glad again to be alone, in the forest, with his rifle and his hounds.

The afternoon of the third day after Tom's departure, as Susan was
sitting at work, she heard something scratching and whining at the door.
Nero, who was by her side, evinced no signs of anger, but ran to the
door, showing his white teeth, as was his custom when pleased. Susan
unbarred it, when, to her astonishment, the two deerhounds her husband
had taken with him, walked into the hut, looking weary and soiled. At
first she thought Tom might have killed a deer not far from home, and
had brought her a fresh supply of venison; but no one was there. She
rushed from the hut, and soon, breathless and terrified, reached the
squatter's cabin. John Wilton and his three sons were just returned from
the clearings, when Susan ran into their comfortable kitchen; her long,
black hair, streaming on her shoulders, and her wild and bloodshot
eyes, gave her the appearance of a maniac. In a few unconnected words,
she explained to them the cause of her terror, and implored them to set
o