Surely He who numbers the sparrows and feeds the ravens was not unmindful of her in that awful hour, but allowed the heavenly kingdom, to which her trembling soul was about to take its flight, to sweeten, with a glimpse of its beatific glory, the bitterness of death, even as the martyr Stephen, seeing the bliss above, could not be conscious of the torture below. Extracting the arrows from the wounds, and dividing her dress among the soldiers, then tenderly wrapping her in a winding sheet, Mr. Kelly had the sad satisfaction of smoothing the earth on the unconscious breast that had ceased to suffer, and when this duty was performed, they left the little grave all alone, far from the happy home of her childhood, and the brothers, with whom she had played in her innocent joy. Of all strange and terrible fates, no one who had seen her gentle face in its loving sweetness, the joy and comfort of our hearts, would have predicted such a barbarous fate for her. But it was only the passage from death into life, from darkness into daylight, from doubt and fear into endless love and joy. Those little ones, whose spirits float upward from their downy pillows, amid the tears and prayers of broken-hearted friends, are blest to enter in at heaven’s shining gate, which lies as near little Mary’s rocky, blood-stained pillow in the desolate waste as the palace of a king, and when she had once gained the great and unspeakable bliss of heaven, it must have blotted out the remembrance of the pain that won it, and made no price too great for such delight. In the far-off land of Indian homes, Where western winds fan “hills of black,” ’Mid lovely flowers, and golden scenes, They laid our loved one down to rest. Where brightest birds, with silvery wings, Sing their sweet songs upon her grave, And the moonbeam’s soft and pearly beams With prairie grasses o’er it wave. No simple stone e’er marks the spot Where Mary sleeps in dreamless sleep, But the moaning wind, with mournful sound, Doth nightly o’er it vigils keep. The careless tread of savage feet, And the weary travelers, pass it by, Nor heed they her, who came so far In her youth and innocence to die. But her happy spirit soared away To blissful climes above; She found sweet rest and endless joy In her bright home of love. CHAPTER XXIV. WHAT OCCURRED AT FORT LARAMIE AFTER MY CAPTURE—EFFORTS TO RESCUE—LIEUTENANT BROWN KILLED—REWARD OFFERED—IT IS THE MEANS OF RESTORING ANOTHER WHITE WOMAN AND CHILD—HER RESCUERS HUNG FOR FORMER MURDERS—A LETTER ANNOUNCING MY SAFE ARRIVAL AT FORT SULLY. Immediately after Mr. Kelly reached Deer Creek, at the time of our capture, he telegraphed to Fort Laramie of the outbreak of the Indians, and the capture of his wife.