The old chief’s voice faltered here, for the first time; and he bowed his head. They saw him brush a tear from his eye—then another rolled down his dusky face, and Anna would have rushed to his side to pour forth her sympathy, had not Francois withheld her—he knew, better than her, the customs of the people among whom he dwelt, that they share with none their woes, but bear their burden alone. The momentary struggle was past, and Oliwibatuc spoke again, calmly, but with lower, sadder tone. “Weetano, thou hast led us in all thy beauty! Thou hast gathered up the flowers of a few summers—but the great snows have not fallen on thee! I will lay thee gently by thy mother, and the braves shall rear the green mound, where I will sit with my bow at evening, gazing on the bright hills of the far south-west. Farewell! Weetano, I go to make thy grave by the river-side!” He drew himself up to his full height, and passed slowly out of his wigwam, and Anna now went forward, and stood sobbing by the couch where darling Red-Bird lay as in a peaceful slumber. How short to her the period since she first beheld her a creature radiant with health and beauty—the fleetest fawn of the wilderness—the gayest bird on the wing! But how soon had all this glory and beauty departed. Weetano had lived, loved, suffered, and died. Thus had she fulfilled her woman’s lot; early indeed—but fully and truly. There remained but to lay her in her last resting-place, according to the custom of her nation, without coffin or shroud—but what matter? Beside her grave the clear tones of the young Vaudois preacher pronounced—“_The dead shall be raised_,” and as his voice went up in prayer, there, in the mighty forest, the red warriors looked at him in wondering silence, and the captive “Book Man” was a mystery. CHAPTER IV. “We lift our trusting eyes From the hills our fathers trod; To the sunshine of the skies. To the sabbath of our God.” Ten years after the events noticed in our last chapter, a pleasant village was rapidly springing upon the sunny lake-side, so long tenanted only by the lonely refugees. The broad old forest had been rudely cut away by the axe of the settler, and cottage-homes were reared thickly side by side. The emigrant’s hut had been transformed into an elegant mansion, whilst the green lawn in front, sloping down to the water, and planted with shrubbery and vines—was the play-ground of happy children. At a little distance, among the trees, a pretty church raised its slender spire toward heaven, and behind it, several mounds of fresh earth told plainly there was no retreat from death. But who was the dark-haired pastor that had first awakened the voice of prayer in that remote settlement? The imagination of the reader will furnish a ready reply.