“Your eyes deceive you, Mr. Earnshaw,” returned the stern old warrior; “long experience in just such matters has enabled me to tell the number of the enemy, or a body of men, at sight.” “Excitement sometimes, captain, multiplies the amount of danger in the mind’s eye, as I think it has in your case; for, come down to the fact of the matter, I don’t believe that it is a war-party at all.” “Man! man!” exclaimed Storms, “do not let the thoughts of a battle--of danger, destroy thy throne of reason. Better go down into the block-house.” Father Earnshaw could not help laughing at the old captain’s wild excitement. “Look there, captain!” he finally exclaimed; “as I live Old Tumult and Town. Farnesworth and Clara Bryant are at the head of _your_ war-party of three hundred.” The captain looked long and closely at the approaching party, rubbed his eyes, chafed his bald crown--glanced at Earnshaw, then at the party again, moved uneasily, and at last, burst into a roar of laughter, which, of itself, was sufficient to show his perplexity and embarrassment. “I thought, Mr. Earnshaw--” But Mr. Earnshaw was gone. He had slipped away from the captain, who was a little hard of hearing as well as defective in seeing, and descending from the block-house, he approached the men and told them of the captain’s scare, and the real nature of the approaching party of savages. The gate of the stockade was at once thrown open, and Old Tumult, Town. and Clara, and the Indian escort of about a score in number, admitted amid ringing shouts of joy and welcome. Town. conducted Clara to the cabin of her father, while Old Tumult explained to the settlers why Mahaska and his warriors were there. The joy of Mr. and Mrs. Bryant was exceedingly great, when their only child was once more restored to their hearts. And the settlers all partook of their joy. After the excitement of the happy meeting was over, and Clara and her mother found themselves alone, the former drew near the latter and said: “Mother, am I your child?” Mrs. Bryant started. “Why, Clara, you surprise me!” she exclaimed. “I see I do, mother,” replied Clara, “but Dick Sherwood told me that I was _not_ your child.” Mrs. Bryant turned very pale, and Clara saw at once that she was greatly agitated. “Is it true, mother?” she asked, her arms stealing softly around the matron’s neck. “It is, it is, Clara! alas, it is too true; but how could that villain, Dick Sherwood, ever have gained the truth? What did he say about it, Clara?” Clara told her all that Sherwood had said, and even of her marriage with him, and the reason why she had married him, and of the subsequent death of Sherwood and Madge Taft. Mrs. Bryant was completely overwhelmed by this revelation of matters, and after trying to unburden her perplexed mind, she said: “No, Clara, you are not my child. I took you to raise when you were but two years old.” “Are either of my parents living?” Clara asked.