The voice of Prairie–bird trembled with a conscious fellow–feeling as she said, “Lita,—I ask not to know your secret, but I pray to the Great Spirit so to direct the steps of him for whom those mocassins are made, that he may receive them at your hands, and wear them for your sake!” On hearing these words, a deep blush came over the face and neck of the Comanche girl; a word of kindness had touched a spring which, in her wild and wayward nature, would have been unmoved by fear or by violence, and she threw herself into the arms of Prairie–bird, giving vent to long–concealed emotions in a flood of tears. Scarcely had she regained her composure and resumed her braiding, when the quick ear of Prairie–bird caught the sound of a low chirrup, like that of a grasshopper, close at the back of the tent: she remembered to have heard that signal before; the blood fled from her cheek, and she held her breath in agitated silence: again the sound was repeated, and Prairie–bird stole to the corner of the tent whence it proceeded, and stooping her head, said, in English, “If Wingenund is there, let him speak.” “My sister!” whispered the soft voice of the youth in reply. “’Tis he! ’tis my dear young brother himself!” “Is all quiet, Prairie–bird?” “All is quiet.” “Then Wingenund will pull out one of these tent–pegs, and creep in below the canvass,—he has much to say to his sister.” In spite of the emotion caused by her brother’s sudden appearance, and by the recollection that, if discovered, his life would certainly be forfeited, Prairie–bird retained sufficient presence of mind to continue passing her fingers through the chords of her guitar, in order to drown the noise made by Wingenund in removing the fastenings, and effecting his entrance below the tent. At length he stood before her; and, after gazing sadly, fondly, on his countenance for a few moments, she fell upon his neck and wept! The figure was indeed that of her favourite brother; but oh, how changed since she had last seen him! Cold, wet, sleepless nights, fatigue, and hunger, had all combined to wear and exhaust a frame which, although cast in nature’s fairest and most graceful mould, had not yet reached the enduring strength of manhood: his once gay attire was soiled and ragged, the mocassins on his feet were of undressed bison–hide, torn, and scarcely affording any protection against the stones and thorny plants with which that region abounds; his light bow, with a few arrows still hung at his back, and the hunting–knife at his girdle: this was all that remained of the gay accoutrements with which he had been adorned in the Osage village; yet, although the frame was emaciated, and the cheeks sunken, the proud lustre of his eye told of a spirit unquenched by suffering, and rising superior to the trials which had almost destroyed its earthly tenement. Prairie–bird longed to ask a hundred questions in a breath: how he had come? whether he had seen or learnt any thing of War–Eagle,