“Gone,” said the chief, “to his daily toil, (for every day he visited the sick of the tribe,) but he will be here soon to go forth with us on the river. Rouse up then.” But the head of Weetano was drooping again like a sleeping flower. “Drop the curtain, and let in more air and light,” said Anna in a beseeching tone, “she is faint and languid; something must be done to revive her. _What can we do!_” “Send for the ‘medicine man,’” said old Zohah; “he will arouse her if any one can.” “Yes, send for Francois Waldo quickly,” exclaimed Anna Temple; “his voice may have power to break this dreadful slumber.” Oliwibatuc made a motion with his hand for some one to depart, but his eyes were fixed earnestly on the prostrate form of his daughter. “Raise her up, Zohah,” said he to the old woman, who was wetting her lips with some beverage, “perhaps she will drink.” They pillowed her up on her couch, and Anna knelt there beside her, taking her hand in her own and supporting her head on her shoulder, while she vainly endeavored to render her conscious by numerous questions. The messenger soon returned, accompanied by the young missionary, who had hastened at the first mention of Weetano’s illness. “What has been the matter with Red-Bird?” asked he in a whisper, at the same time regarding her closely. “She sleeps quietly now.” “She has slept thus all day, and will not waken,” replied Anna, bursting into tears. “O, Francois, can you not arouse her?” “_Thus_, did you say—has she slept peacefully all day? ’Tis strange,” added he, taking her hand, “her pulse beats well, and her breathing is regular: has she spoken?” “Two or three times,” replied Zohah. “Once she inquired for you. Let her know you have come.” “Weetano, Weetano!” said he, bending his lips close to her ear, “speak to your brother, Weetano—he has come back from his toil. Will not his sister welcome him?” Those tones fell not unheeded; there was another struggle as if to burst the leaden chain, and an expression of happiness spread like sunlight over her features. Her dark eyes were again unsealed, and a momentary brightness fell from beneath the long lashes, as she said faintly, “Weetano heard her brother’s voice in her dream, but she cannot awaken to its music—her slumber is not over;” and her voice died away in a murmur, like the lingering pulsations of a harp, and her head hung heavily. All through the long afternoon did they labor to break that strange lethargy, but no care or remedy proved successful, and her breath grew shorter and fainter until evening, when she revived a little, and looked consciously on all around. The old chief was near, gazing mournfully on his drooping child, and beside her were Francois Waldo and Anna Temple, upon whom she still leaned for support. She bestowed on each a look of the most earnest affection, then said, in clear, unbroken accents—