Our readers cannot have forgotten the story of the Indian mother who was discovered by the hunters during their excursion to the Wabash, searching at night for her son, nor their consequent visit to her wigwam. Several months had now elapsed since their departure from it; her son had recovered from his wound, and their mutual promise to seek for the maiden had often been a subject of conversation between them. Still nothing had been accomplished, when Pukkwana, who often reverted to the subject, suggested to Oloompa, that by visiting the camp of the Prophet, he might probably obtain some information which would lead to her discovery. She felt satisfied from the story told by the hunters, that the maiden must have been carried to the camp, and there concealed, or else sent away to some distant region. But since their departure, the deep hatred which had ever marked the conduct of Oloompa towards the whites, began to revive in his bosom, and he seemed careless about fulfilling the promise which he had made; and when his mother wished him, in an attempt to do so, to visit the camp of the Prophet, he said, “Mother, shall Oloompa's moccasins be worn with travel for the sake of a pale face? The pale faces hate the red men. They are our enemies. They would drive us away from the graves of our fathers.” “Oloompa has promised,” was the reply, “his father never broke a promise.” “Oloompa will remember his promise,” said he, “the hunters were good to his mother. He will seek the maiden; if found, they shall know it. But he here swears before the Great Spirit, eternal enmity to their race. Oloompa will no more travel with them the same path, smoke the same pipe or sit around the same fire. He will wash his hands. He is their enemy.” “These are the words of the Shawanee Prophet;” said Pukkwana, “he puts bad thoughts into the heads of the red men.” “Mother, Oloompa knows not the words of the Prophet; they say he preaches peace:—Oloompa's thoughts are always the same;—wrongs are sharp knives, they cut deep.” “Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “when the sky is clear, why think of the storms which have passed?” “My mother's eyes are dim,” said Oloompa, “she sees not the light of the red torch which is kindling. She hears not the groans of the dying in the howling of the winds. Oloompa's tomahawk shall drink deep of the blood of the whites.” “Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “thy bosom is like the big lake when the winds pass over it. Thy words are harsh to my ears. I like them not. Listen. Thou goest to seek the lost maiden. Thou mayest find her; but if ever by words or acts thou wrongest her when found, or the hunters who bade thee seek her, thou art no longer thy mother's son.”