,"
said the trapper.

"Let me see, let me see my children. To him be the praise and the
glory," ejaculated the pious father, raising his bonnet reverently from
his head; "and holy and blessed be his name for ever. I thought not
to have seen this day. Oh! Catharine, my dear wife, this joy will kill
you."

In a moment his children were enfolded in his arms. It is a mistaken
idea that joy kills, it is a life restorer. Could you, my young readers,
have seen how quickly the bloom of health began to reappear on the faded
cheek of that pale mother, and how soon that dim eye regained its bright
sparkle, you would have said that joy does not kill.

"But where is Louis, dear Louis, our nephew, where is he?"

Louis whose impetuosity was not to be restrained by the caution of old
Jacob, had cleared the log fence at a bound, had hastily embraced his
cousins Kenneth and Donald, and in five minutes more had rushed into his
father's cottage, and wept his joy in the arms of father, mother, and
sisters by turns, before old Jacob had introduced the impatient Hector
and Catharine to their father.

"But while joy is in our little dwelling, who is this that sits apart
upon that stone by the log fence, her face bent sadly down upon het
knees, her long raven hair shading her features as with a veil,"
asked the Highlander Maxwell, pointing as he spoke' to the spot where,
unnoticed and unsharing in the joyful recognition, sat the poor Indian
girl. There was no paternal embrace for her, no tender mother's kiss
imprinted on that dusky cheek and pensive brow--she was alone and
desolate, in the midst of that scene of gladness.

"It is my Indian sister," said Catharine, "she also must be your child;"
and Hector hurried to Indiana and half leading, half carrying the
reluctant girl, brought her to his parents and bade them be kind to and
cherish the young stranger, to whom they all owed so much.

I will not dwell upon the universal joy that filled that humble
dwelling, or tell the delight of Kenneth and Donald at the return of
their lost brother and sister, for my story hurries to a close.

Time passes on--years, long years have gone by since the return of
the lost children to their homes, and many changes have those years
effected. The log-houses have fallen to decay--a growth of young pines,
a waste of emerald turf with the charred logs that once formed part
of the enclosure, now, hardly serve to mark out the old settlement--no
trace or rec