war the
little community of red people whom Mr. Eliot had begun to civilize was
scattered, and probably never was restored to a flourishing condition.
But his zeal did not grow cold; and only about five years before his
death he took great pains in preparing a new edition of the Indian
Bible."

"I do wish, Grandfather," cried Charley, "you would tell us all about
the battles in King Philip's War."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Clara. "Who wants to hear about tomahawks and
scalping knives?"

"No, Charley," replied Grandfather, "I have no time to spare in
talking about battles. You must be content with knowing that it was the
bloodiest war that the Indians had ever waged against the white men; and
that, at its close, the English set King Philip's head upon a pole."

"Who was the captain of the English?" asked Charley.

"Their most noted captain was Benjamin Church, a very famous warrior,"
said Grandfather. "But I assure you, Charley, that neither Captain
Church, nor any of the officers and soldiers who fought in King Philip's
War, did anything a thousandth part so glorious as Mr. Eliot did when he
translated the Bible for the Indians."

"Let Laurence be the apostle," said Charley to himself, "and I will be
the captain."

CHAPTER IX. ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND.

The children were now accustomed to assemble round Grandfather's chair
at all their unoccupied moments; and often it was a striking picture
to behold the white-headed old sire, with this flowery wreath of young
people around him. When he talked to them, it was the past speaking
to the present, or rather to the future,--for the children were of a
generation which had not become actual. Their part in life, thus far,
was only to be happy and to draw knowledge from a thousand sources. As
yet, it was not their time to do.

Sometimes, as Grandfather gazed at their fair, unworldly countenances,
a mist of tears bedimmed his spectacles. He almost regretted that it was
necessary for them to know anything of the past or to provide aught for
the future. He could have wished that they might be always the happy,
youthful creatures who had hitherto sported around his chair, without
inquiring whether it had a history. It grieved him to think that his
little Alice, who was a flower bud fresh from paradise, must open her
leaves to the rough breezes of the world, or ever open them in any
clime. So sweet a child she was, that it seemed fit her infancy should
be immortal.

But su