"It cannot be," he said; "the Great Spirit has made the pale faces to dwell in houses, to plough the fields, and to listen to the voice which comes from the printed book, held up before his eyes; but he has made the red man to hunt the deer, and to live alone in the open air. When the Great Spirit created man, he made his red child first, out of the best clay: he then made the pale faces; and lastly, out of what was left he made the black man. And he placed before them three boxes; and because his red child was the favorite, he told him to choose which he would have. So he chose the box containing a bow and arrows, a tomahawk, and a pipe. Then the pale face chose; and he took the box which held a plough, carpenters' tools, a gun, and a book. And the black man took what was left: in his box was an overseer's whip, a spade, and a hoe. And this has been the portion of each ever since. I am a red man, and I cannot breathe where men are thicker than trees: to me belong the bow and arrows, the wild deer, and the open sky. The old man has returned to visit the graves of his ancestors; but soon, far away from them, he will drop to the ground, like the ripe persimmon after a frost. Orikama has returned to the ways of her fathers, and I do not blame her, for she is a pale face. But the old man cannot change, like a leaf in October; soon will his sun set in yonder western heaven, and he must now keep on his course. I have said." When the moon arose, Towandahoc left the house, bending his steps to the forest: but he did not go without passing his word that he would bring Ponawtan to see her daughter. Before the winter set in, they arrived, and Emily's tender heart was grieved as she gazed upon the wasting form of her who had so often sheltered her in her arms: it was only too evident that another summer would not see her upon the earth. Ponawtan was greatly cheered by her visit; but could only be prevailed upon to stay for a few days, when she departed, never more to return. In the spring, Towandahoc came alone; his sorrowful face and drooping form told the tale of sorrow before he opened his lips: his energy and vital powers seemed to have died with Ponawtan. He never came again; and doubtless he soon found a resting-place by the side of her who had been his life-long companion. "So, you didn't kill any of your people off, but the two farm-servants, for whom we do not care a fig!" cried Charlie Bolton. "Not I," replied Mary; "I'm not very partial to blood and murder; I would not have put them out of the way, except to please you; I lay the manslaughter at your door, Cousin mine."