—“Oh! I remember,” said Reginald, laughing; “she was to have been called the ‘Lucy;’ but Edward did not choose to hear that name in every common sailor’s and negro’s mouth; so he altered it to The Pride of Ohio, which means, in his vocabulary, the same thing.” “I wish,” said Lucy, “there was any Mary, or Charlotte, or Catherine, or any other name under the sun, about which I could tease you! Have a little patience, Mr. Reginald; my turn will come; you shall see what mercy I will show you then!” Thus did the brother and sister spar and jest with each other until they reached the spot appointed for the interview. As they had arrived rather before the time, they imagined that the War–Eagle had not yet come; but Baptiste, putting his finger to his mouth, blew a long shrill signal whistle, and in a few minutes the chief appeared, accompanied by Wingenund. As they emerged from the forest, and approached, Reginald looked at his sister to see the effect produced by their appearance; for the chief was dressed in a manner calculated to display his noble figure and countenance to better advantage than on the preceding day. His long black hair was parted on his forehead, and gathered into a mass, confined by a narrow fillet made from the fur of the white weasel, and surmounted by an eagle’s feather. It seemed that his vow of war and revenge was for the time cancelled; for the lines of black paint which had disfigured his visage were removed, and the commanding form and features were not marred by any grotesque or fanciful attire. His brawny neck was bare, and a portion of his bold, open chest appeared beneath the light hunting–shirt, which was his only upper vesture. The ponderous war–club was still at his girdle, but the scalp had disappeared; and his light, free step upon the grass was like that of a young elk on the prairie. The dress of Wingenund was unaltered. He was still very weak from the loss of blood, and the pain consequent upon his wound; his arm rested in a sling, made from the plaited bark of elm: and the air of languor cast over his countenance by sleeplessness and suffering, gave additional effect to the delicacy of his features, and the deep dark lustre of his eyes. “Our new brother is indeed a fine looking creature!” said Lucy, as War–Eagle drew near. “What a haughty step and bearing he has! Wingenund looks too gentle to be an Indian!” “He is as brave as gentle, Lucy: look at his arm!” and, as she did look at the wounded limb, she remembered that only yesterday it had saved her brother’s life. The greeting between Reginald and the two Indians was affectionate and cordial: he then presented his sister to them both in turn. The chieftain placing his hand upon his heart, fixed upon her that penetrating look with which he had before scrutinised her brother: it was not the bold stare of vulgarity admiring beauty, but the child of nature reading, after his own fashion, a page in her book.