Thus prevailed on, Anna Temple lay down on the downy bed her friend had spread for her, but she felt no disposition to sleep, for too many thoughts came crowding thickly on her mind, and when, to her surprise, the child of the dusky Mohawk half sung, half chanted the “Cradle Hymn of the Shepherds,” in a voice wildly musical, it brought back with overpowering force the hours of her childhood and the dimly remembered tones of her mother’s voice, for that hymn had often been her lullaby. She buried her face in the blankets, but in spite of her utmost efforts her sobs reached the sharp ear of her companion, who paused quickly in her hymn. “Does the song of Red-Bird make the tired Lily weep? She meant it not so—but the wounded bird has ever a mournful strain. She will sing no more!” “Nay, nay, dear Weetano, it is not that; but long years ago my mother used to sing me that hymn, and it seemed so very strange that its echo should come back to me far away in these dim old woods. Francois Waldo must have heard it, too, among the Alpine hills.” At the mention of that name Weetano started slightly, and looking earnestly at Anna, said—“I remember those words—the Frenchman spoke them—they mean my pale brother. You knew him, then, over the great waters?” “Yes, Weetano. I knew him there. His enemies burnt his home and murdered his parents—then he fled to my country for shelter. Did I not tell you once of the peasant-boy and his poor little sister Christine? He used to be my tutor there, in my first home—that is all, Weetano.” “Nay, maiden, doth thy heart whisper truly? Listen! When he read the name on the beautiful book which the Lily gave to Red-Bird, his brow grew whiter, and his eyelids quivered like the poplar before the storm. ’Tis not every breath that moves my brother!” The shrewd girl’s artifice revealed a truth which the lips denied, and the heart would fain have concealed; but those few words had called it forth, and it was written on every lineament of her face too plainly for an eye less penetrating than an Indian’s to have mistaken its import. Weetano smiled meaningly on her confused and trembling companion, and continued— “Why would you hang mist before the eyes of Red-Bird? Did she not trust the white maiden, and does she suppose the daughter of the Mohawk cannot hold her tongue?” “Nay, nay; you wrong me, Weetano. ’Tis but now I learned that my old companion dwelt in the Mohawk’s lodge. Had not my sister already told me before, ‘that she had looked on the face of her white brother and a new life had been awakened in her heart.’ Should the Lily pluck the sweet morsel from the taste of Red-Bird? No, she is not so selfish—she would sooner feed her with her own heart’s food.”