Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour, And sumless riches from affection’s deep, To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship—therefore pray! Hemans. As the summer wore on, the change in Weetano grew more and more apparent to the watchful eye of Anna Temple, and awoke in her loving heart an earnest anxiety for her safety. Her strength was no longer sufficient to urge forward her canoe—and it rested like a bird on the water; and though she still insisted on the daily ramble in the greenwood, she followed her companion with faltering footsteps, and each day their resting-place was some fallen trunk or mossy rock nearer home than on the day preceding. It was during these summer rambles that Anna had acceded to the earnest entreaty of her friend to instruct her in the “Book of the Pale Face;” and the avidity with which she gathered the words of instruction betrayed an ardent thirst for wisdom. She was soon able to read with a little assistance, and Anna presented her with a little Pocket-Bible, that had been the companion of all her wanderings, with her own name in gilt on the cover. It was her sole copy of the Scriptures—but the family Bible lay on the shelf, at their cottage; and she wisely thought her little volume would be of greater worth to Red-Bird than to herself—and much cause had she afterward for joy that her gift of love was thus bestowed. As the season advanced, Weetano manifested an anxiety with regard to their return, and evidently dreaded her father’s orders to depart—for she had learned a little of the tastes and habits of her white friends, and they seemed more congenial to her now delicate frame than the ruder customs of her tribe. There seemed, moreover, some secret care weighing down her spirits; and although she, Indian-like, buried it for a time in her own bosom, and Anna forbore questioning, it at length found voice in words. They were sitting by the lake-side one morning, and Anna plucked a pretty blue flower just opening there, and gave it to Red-Bird. “’Tis the first herald of autumn,” said Weetano. “The gentian opens for the corn-dance, and Oliwibatuc will soon go to his tribe. Would that Red-Bird might stay in the lodge with Pale-Lily until the feast of the braves is over! She cannot dress the lodge of the chief—Weetano is weary;” and the Indian girl burst into tears. “You are sick, darling Red-Bird,” said Anna, taking her hand in a caressing manner. “Tell me what is the matter, and I will nurse you, for you are all the sister I have here in this distant home. You are not afraid to trust _me_, Weetano?”