“Have you yourself no recollection of that terrible time?” “Yes, I remember it well. It was a fearful experience indeed, but it was so long since that I can think upon it, without the shuddering you would suppose I ought to feel. I remember the long ride in the emigrant wagon--the halt in the woods--the cutting down of the trees--the building of the cabin--the howling of the wolves at night--my sports with my brothers and sisters by the brook that ran near the house--the dark night when we were all awakened from sleep by the whoops of Indians--the burning of the cabin--the tomahawking of my mother as she threw herself between her children who were huddling together in terror--the slaying of them--the brave but useless fight my father made--how I was then caught up in the arms of a savage and borne away in the dark woods. Oh, it was a dreadful sight!” And in spite of what Lamora had said, her feelings overcame her, and she sobbed as if her heart was breaking. Her lover was silent out of respect and sympathy for her, until she had regained her self-command in a degree, when he said in the kindest of tones: “It was cruel in me to call up the remembrance; will you forgive me?” “It is past now,” she replied. “Then follows a summer in an Indian village on the shore of some great lake, where I was treated harshly, and then, one day, Kipwan, an old man, and a Christian Indian, came to the village, and when he went away he took me with him on his horse. We rode a long distance until we reached his tribe, where I staid until I was quite a girl, when they moved a great way westward to this place, where we have been ever since.” “And during all this time, did you feel no longing to return to your father?” “Yes; and I shed many tears, but I was treated with great kindness, and the longing gradually wore away until it entirely disappeared.” “Entirely so?” “Yes, entirely.” “And do you think you can be content to spend the remainder of your life among those Indians, and finally to die there?” “Why not? I have no enemies; they are all my friends.” “I do not doubt that; but they are savage and you are civilized; they are of one race and you of another.” “It is a difference to you but none to me,” she said, sorrowfully. “Nowhere else could I find such friends as there.” “Do you doubt me, dearest Lamora? Do you not believe that I love you? that I am yours, heart and soul? Tell me, do you think I am deceiving you?” Her head drooped still lower, but she replied distinctly: “No; I do not think you would do that.” “Then do not doubt me; I will take you to my own home; you shall be mine and I shall be yours; there is nothing that love can do for you that shall not be done. Can you not be happy in my love?”