and
fed her, and bade her be comforted; but her young heart burned within
her, and she refused consolation. She could not forget the wrongs of
her people: she was the only living creature left of the Mohawks on that
island. The young girl was Indiana, the same whom Hector Maxwell had
found, wounded and bound, to perish with hunger and thirst on Bare-hill.

Brooding with revenge in her heart, the young girl told them that she
had stolen unperceived into the tent of the Bald Eagle, and aimed a
knife at his throat, but the fatal blow was arrested by one of the
young men, who had watched her enter the old chiefs tent. A council was
called, and she was taken to Bare-hill, bound, and left in the sad state
already described.

It was with feelings of horror and terror that the Christian children
listened to this fearful tale, and Indiana read in their averted eyes
and pale faces the feelings with which the recital of the tale of blood
had inspired them. And then it was that as they sat beneath the shade
of the trees, in the soft misty light of an Indian summer moon, that
Catharine, with simple earnestness, taught her young disciple those
heavenly lessons of mercy and forgiveness which her Redeemer had set
forth by his life, his doctrines, and his death.

And she told her, that if she would see that Saviour's face in Heaven,
and dwell with him in joy and peace for ever, she must learn to pray for
those dreadful men who had made her fatherless and motherless, and her
home a desolation; that the fire of revenge must be quenched within her
heart, and the spirit of love alone find place within it, or she could
not become the child of God and an inheritor of the kingdom of Heaven.
How hard were these conditions to the young heathen,--how contrary to
her nature, to all that she had been taught in the tents of her fathers,
where revenge was virtue, and to take the scalp of an enemy a glorious
thing!

Yet when she contrasted the gentle, kind, and dovelike characters of her
Christian friends, with the fierce bloody people of her tribe and of her
Ojebwa enemies, she could not but own they were more worthy of love and
admiration: had they not found her a poor miserable trembling captive,
unbound her, fed and cherished her, pouring the balm of consolation into
her wounded heart, and leading her in bands of tenderest love to forsake
those wild and fearful passions that warred in her soul, and bringing
her to the feet of the Saviour, to