Esock Mayall stood as one amazed as he viewed the beautiful figure before him, dressed in a neat flowing dress that came down to her feet, covered with wampum and such beautiful moccasins, embroidered with the quills of the porcupine, with a border of the same around the bottom of her flowing dress. Had he seen one of the fairies of olden times, a fabled goddess of the sylvan shade, or had he seen a human being in this image of beauty that appeared before his father and welcomed him to her home and then glided away to her father, the Indian chief? Esock Mayall no longer seemed to notice the flashes of lightning, the roaring of the thunder, nor the pelting of the storm, but kept his eye upon the departing form of that beautiful angel amid the rushing of the tempest. Could this be the chief's daughter, her face as white as a pond lily with the rose's blush upon her cheek and her eyes as blue as the violets of May, with her flaxen hair flowing in unbound ringlets upon her shoulders? No, never. No Indian blood ever flowed in the veins of a being so white and fair. It must be a phantom of his bewildered imagination. He was sure that when he reached the wigwam he should see the chief's daughter with her red skin, long, straight black hair and snaky eyes, just as he had pictured her in his imagination ever since his father first mentioned her name. A few moments more and they were unloading from their canvas-covered wagon before the Indian chief's wigwam, with the same fair being he had seen retire so hastily to the wigwam amid the fury of the storm, flying about, leading the children into the wigwam and kindly assisting them in drying their wet garments; for the fury of the storm had passed by. After Mayall and his son had taken care of their team they walked to the wigwam, Mayall leading the way, whilst his son, Esock, walked timidly behind, straining every nerve lest he should lose his presence of mind when the chief's daughter appeared before him. He entered the wigwam. Curiosity stood on tiptoe. The Indian chief welcomed Mayall and his son to his most ample hospitality, and then, turning to the fairy queen that stood near him, he said he was pleased with having an opportunity of making Esock Mayall, the son of his old friend, acquainted with his adopted daughter. The maiden stopped gently forward and took young Mayall by the hand. The secret was out. The vision of beauty constantly appeared before him, by night and by day. The Indian chief had taken this young squaw, as he called her, a prisoner in one of his excursions into Canada during the war of the Revolution, and adopted her into his family on account of her comeliness and natural graces.