In the midst of this hubbub, little Charlie, a bright, beautiful, but delicate boy of nine summers, crept away to the foot of the garden, and there, on a large stone under a tall sugar maple, his face buried in his hands, he wept bitterly. Poor Charlie! he was taking his first lesson in home-sickness, even before his childhood’s home had disappeared from view. He had always been opposed to emigrating to Kentucky, which, in his mind, was all “dark, dark woods,” where each member of the family would be tomahawked by the Indians every day at least, if not oftener. But Charlie’s tears were unavailing—the old homestead was sold, the preparations were nearly completed, and in a few hours he would bid good-bye to the places he loved so well. “I shall never sit under this tree again,” said the weeping boy, “never again play in the dear old brook; and when I die there, I shall be afraid to lie alone in the dark woods, and there will be none but our folks to cry for me, either.” A soft footstep sounded near, two little arms were thrown round Charlie’s neck, and a childish voice whispered, “Oh, Charlie, Charlie, _I_ will cry when I hear you are dead, and if you will send for me before you die, I will surely come.” It was Ella, his cousin. She was a year his junior, and since his earliest remembrance she had been the object of his deepest affection. Together they had played in the forest shade, together in the garden had they made their flower-beds, and together had they mourned over torn dresses, lost mittens, bumped heads, nettle stings, and so forth. It is not altogether improbable that Charlie’s grief arose partly from the fact that Ella must be left behind. He had always been delicate, and frequently talked to Ella of dying, so that she readily believed him when he told her he should die in Kentucky; she believed, too, that she should see him again ere he died. Did she believe aright? The story will tell you, but I shall not. CHAPTER III. CATO AND DILLAH. Everything was in readiness except the little waggon which was to convey the best looking-glass, the stuffed rocking-chair, Mrs. Wilder, and Charlie. On an old stump near the gate sat Aunt Dillah, industriously wiping the tears from her dusky cheeks, and ever and anon exclaiming, “’Pears like I could bar it better if I was gwine with them.” This remark was overheard by her master, Capt. Wilder. He had frequently heard Cato express the same wish, and thought it quite natural too, inasmuch as Jake, their only child, was to accompany the deacon. For a moment the captain stood irresolute. We will not say what thoughts passed through his mind, but after a time he went away and in quest of his brother. There was a short consultation, and then Capt. Wilder, returning to Dillah, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, “Aunt Dillah, would it please you and Cato to go to Kentucky, and be killed with the Indians along with Jake?”