“The Lily will brighten my brother’s pathway, but Oliwibatuc will be alone! You will not forsake my father,” continued she, fixing her dark eye on the pale youth before her, inquiringly. “Never, Weetano, I promise in the sight of heaven, while I live he shall find in me a son to lean upon; he has been as a father to his captive—I will never desert him.” “I believe you,” she said, pressing his hand to her lips—“Your words are true.” Then placing the hand of Anna Temple in that of her white brother, with a quiet smile she closed her eyes again for their last slumber. All night the spirit of Weetano clung to its earthly tenement, and the morning found it still hovering around its beautiful abode, as if unwilling to forsake its companionship. The lodge was filled with the sorrowing faces of those who had gathered to obtain a last look of the daughter of their chief, who lay there in their midst like a breathing statue—but while the dew still lingered on the flower, the lips of the sleeper parted gently, her eyelids quivered—a momentary shudder passed over her frame, and the strife was over. Captive Red-Bird had at last burst her prison bars, and unfolded her wings in the sunnier bowers of the spirit-land. One by one those who had gathered near to witness the last moments of the chief’s daughter went forth, that Oliwibatuc might stand alone in the presence of his dead. Francois and Anna withdrew to a little distance from the couch of the dear departed, and gazed with tearful faces on the old warrior, who stood with a mournful face gazing on the last of his household! He stooped at length, and took the hand, scarcely yet cold, in his own, and, pronounced in an unbroken tone an Indian farewell: “The Great Spirit help thee on thy journey, my daughter—the way is long and fearful! Thou art a tender bird to try the unseen path alone, but let not thy wing falter in the misty valley, for the blue hills are shining brightly beyond! Pass onward—thy mother hath spread her couch there; thou art the last bird of our nest, and she waiteth for thee! Tell her—her warrior hath dwelt alone in his wigwam since we laid her by the quiet river! Tell her—that thou alone hast been the sunbeam of his lodge, and hast spread the couch of the weary! O, Weetano! thy father is lonely now—why didst thou go before him to the dwelling-place of the happy? The hunter will come to his wigwam weary at evening, but the torch will not be lighted, for Weetano will not be there! His cup will be empty, and his board desolate! No song shall lull him to slumber, for Red-Bird has gone to her mother!”