For this information he was indebted to Narretta, who, three days before Wahlaga’s illness, overhearing him unfold his plan of revenge to Owanno, went to the door of Deacon Wilder’s house, and asking for Robert, led him to the woods, and there communicated to him what he had just told Orianna. Robert did not ask Orianna to be his wife; and perhaps ’twas well that he did not, for the confession which he did make, added to the excitement of Wahlaga’s and Charlie’s death, was too much for a frame already weakened by the hardships attending that journey to and from Virginia. The next morning found her burning with fever and raving with delirium. Owanno, too, was smitten by the same disease which had consigned Wahlaga to an early grave. With anxious heart Narretta hurried from one sufferer to the other, and the first Indian that looked at the door, was urged to go immediately to Deacon Wilder’s and ask some one to come to her. Robert and Marian instantly obeyed the summons, but human skill could not save Owanno. In three days after the commencement of his illness, it was said of him that he had gone to the fair hunting grounds, while the despairing howl of the assembled Indians mingled with the mournful wail of the widowed Narretta and the feeble moans of Orianna, who incessantly cried, “Bury me under the maple tree with Charlie, where we sat when he told me—where he told me——” but what he told her she never said. At Marian’s request, Mrs. Gorton had remained for some time at Glen’s Creek, and one day, not long after Owanno’s burial, she accompanied her daughter to see Orianna, who, though very weak, was still much better. They found her asleep, but Narretta arose to receive them. As Mrs. Gorton’s eye fell upon her, an undefined remembrance of something past and gone rose before her, and at last, taking the old Indian woman’s hand, she said, “Narretta, have I never met you before?” “Plenty times,” was the laconic answer; and after a moment’s pause, Mrs. Gorton continued: “I remember now, eighteen or twenty years ago your wigwam was near my home in Virginia, and you one morning came to me, saying you were going away toward the setting sun.” “White woman remembers wonderful,” said old Narretta. “I might not remember so well,” answered Mrs. Gorton, “but you loved my little Madeline, and about the time you went away she died.” Something out of doors attracted Narretta’s attention, and she abruptly turned away. For more than an hour she was gone, and when she returned she was muttering to herself, “Yes, I’ll do it. I shall do it.” “Do what?” asked Marian, a little alarmed at Narretta’s excited manner.