ldren. During the prayer the
Indian stood apart, his arms were folded, and deep thought was marked on
his brow. When it was finished, Mary's children knelt and received
Kenneth's blessing, ere they retired to rest. The Indian rushed forward,
and, bursting into tears, threw himself at the old man's feet--he bent
his feathered head to the earth. The stern warrior wept like a child.
Oh! who can trace the deep workings of the human heart? Who can tell in
what hidden fount the feelings have their spring? The forest chase--the
bloody field--the war dance--all the pomp of savage life passed like a
dream from the Indian's soul; a cloud seemed to roll its shadows from
his memory. That evening's prayer, and a father's blessing, recalled a
time faded from his recollection, yet living in the dreams of his soul.
He thought of the period when he, a happy child like those before him,
had knelt and heard the same sweet words breathed o'er his bending head:
he remembered having received a father's kiss, and a mother's smile
gleamed like a star in his memory; but the fleeting visions of childhood
were fading again into darkness, when Kenneth arose, and, clasping the
Indian wildly to his breast, exclaimed, "My son, my son! my long lost
Charles!" The springs of the father's love gushed forth to meet his son,
and the unseen sympathy of nature guided him to "The Lost One." 'Twas
indeed Charles Gordon, whom his father held to his breast, but not as he
lived in his father's fancy. He beheld him a painted savage, whose hand
was yet stained with blood; but Kenneth's fondest prayer was granted,
and he pressed him again to his bosom, exclaiming again, "He is my son."
A small gold cross hung suspended from the collar of Charles. Kenneth
knew it well; it had belonged to Marion, who hung it round her son's
neck e'er her eyes were closed. She had sickened early of her captivity,
and died while her son was yet a child: but the relics she had left
were prized by him as something holy. From his wampum belt he took a
roll of the bark of the birch tree, on which something had been written
with a pencil. The writing was nearly effaced, and the signature of
Marion Gordon was alone distinguishable. Kenneth pressed the writing to
his lips, and again his bruised spirit mourned for his sainted Marion.
Mary and Alice greeted their restored brother with warm affection.
Kenneth lived but in the sight of his son. Charles rejoiced in their
endearments, and all the joys