“Yes, as happy as those can be who are left alone on earth.” “What! are there none of your family now living?” “No, no!” she replied, bitterly; “the blood of Powhatan now runs in this narrow channel,” and she held out her graceful arms, as she spoke, with an expressive gesture. “Alas! I pity you,” said Bernard, sighing. “We are alike in this—for my blood is reduced to as narrow a channel as your own. But your family was very numerous?” “Yes, numerous as those stars—and bright and beautiful as they.” “Judging from the only Pleiad that remains,” thought Bernard, “you may well say so—and can you,” he added, aloud, “forgive those who have thus injured you?” “Forgive, oh yes, or how shall I be forgiven! Look at those stars! They shine the glory of the night. They vanish before the sun of the morning. So faded my people before the arms of the white man—and yet I can freely forgive them all!” “What, even those who have quenched those stars!” said Bernard, with a sinister meaning in his tone. “You mistake,” replied Mamalis, touchingly. “They are not quenched. The stars we see to-night, though unseen on the morrow, are still in heaven.” “Nay, Mamalis,” said Bernard, “the creed of your fathers taught not thus. I thought the Indian maxim was that blood alone could wipe out the stain of blood.” “I love the Christian lesson better,” said Mamalis, softly. “And you, Mr. Bernard, should not try to shake my new born faith. 'Love your enemies—bless them that curse you—pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you—that you may be the children of your Father which is in heaven.' The orphan girl on earth would love to be the child of her father in heaven.” The sweet simplicity with which the poor girl thus referred to the precepts and promises of her new religion, derived more touching beauty from the broken English with which she expressed them. An attempt to describe her manner and accent would be futile, and would detract from the simple dignity and sweetness with which she uttered the words. We leave the reader from his own imagination to fill up the picture which we can only draw in outline. Bernard saw and felt the power of religion in the heart of this poor savage, and he hesitated what course he should pursue. He knew that her strongest feeling in life had been her affection for her brother. That had been the chord which earliest vibrated in her heart, and which as her heart expanded only increased in tension that added greater sweetness to its tone. It was on this broken string, so rudely snapped asunder, that he resolved to play—hoping thus to strike some harsh and discordant notes in her gentle heart. “You had a brother, Mamalis,” he said, abruptly; “the voice of your brother's blood calls to you from the ground.” “My brother!” shrieked the girl, startled by the suddenness of the allusion.