But only a little while was she permitted this happiness—her daughter died, while yet an infant, and when Sheninjee was away. Again the feeling of desolation came over her young spirit, but all around her ministered in every way to her comfort, and became more than ever endeared to her heart. After a long absence Sheninjee returned, and she was again happy for many months. She had a son and named him from her father, to which no objection was made by her Indian friends, and her love for her husband became idolatry. In her eyes he seemed every thing noble and good,—she mourned his departure and longed for his return, for his affection prompted him to treat her with the gentle and winning kindness which is the spirit of true love alone. But again came the separation, and she must pass another long winter alone. Hunting was the Indian’s toil, and though they delighted in it, the pang of parting from his wife and little ones, made it a sacrifice, and spread a dark cloud over a long period of his life. And now it became dark indeed to Mary, for she waited long and Sheninjee came not. She put every thing in order in his little dwelling—she dressed new skins for his couch, and smoked venison to please his taste; she made the fire bright to welcome him, hoping every evening when she lay down with her baby upon her bosom, that ere the morning sun the husband and father would gladden them by his smile, but in vain; winter passed away, and the spring, and then came the sad tidings that he was dead. She was a widow and her child was fatherless. Very long and deeply did she mourn Sheninjee, for it seemed to her there was none like him; but again the sympathies of his people created new links to bind her to them, and she said she could not have loved a mother or sister more dearly than she did those who stood in this relationship to her, and soothed her by their loving words. Not for four years was she again urged to marry, and during this time there was an exchange of prisoners, and she had an opportunity to return to her kindred. She was left to do as she pleased. They told her she might go; but if she preferred to remain, she should still be their daughter and sister, and they would give her land for her own, where she might always dwell. Again she thought of the prejudice she should every where meet, and that she could never patiently listen to reproaches concerning her husband’s people. It would not be believed that he was noble, because he was an Indian,—she should have no near relatives, and those she had might reject her if she should seek them. So she came to the final conclusion, and never more sighed for the advantages or pleasures of civilized life. She came with the brothers of Sheninjee to the banks of the Genesee, where she resided the remaining seventy-two years of her life.