The ranger, after a few minutes further conversation, left our friends, and departed. The words recorded took place the next day after the battle described in a preceding chapter, and up to this time nothing had been heard of Moffat and Kingman. During the interval Pompey had come in, who of course knew nothing. Their prolonged absence occasioned the most painful apprehension. All but Captain Parks were extremely doubtful of their return and Kingman’s parents were compelled to believe that their promising “George” was lost forever to them. The sad uncertainty of their fate cast a gloom over all the settlement. But there was one upon whom the blow fell, as the minister remarked, with double weight. The gentle, blue-eyed Irene Stuart and the daring George Kingman had long been plighted—plighted in hearts, but not in words. All had seen and understood the claim which he had upon her, and although there was many an admiring eye cast upon the lithe and graceful form, yet none pretended to dispute his right. All gave way, and pronounced the handsome twain “a fine match.” Irene watched with a straining eye for the form of her beloved to appear among the returned. None other than she who has experienced it can understand the painful doubt, the distressing uncertainty of a heart in such a situation: and when the fatal knowledge, like a blow of death, strikes all at once, then it is that the soul feels its great agony. As the good minister communicated gently, and with an air of hopefulness, the tidings that Moffat and Kingman had not returned, she felt her heart sink within her. The minster noticed her sudden paleness and faintness, and hastened to remark. “Oh, my child! you must not take it thus. There is good reason to believe that your friend is living, and will yet return.” “Did any one see them fall?” she asked, in a voice so calm that it was frightful. “Not at all. Gavoon, who was killed, was seen when shot, as were most of the others; but no one noticed our friend.” “Then there is hope!” “To be sure—to be sure. Moffat is very skillful, they say, in savage ways, and has been delivered from so many dreadful dangers that it can hardly be supposed with reason that he has not escaped from this.” “But why do they remain so long away?” “Many reasons might detain them of which we know nothing, child. I have by no means given up hope, and I think it is not wrong for me to encourage you in hoping for the best.” “I will try,” she remarked, faintly, as she arose and went to her room, where she might indulge her sorrow in secret. The good minister had arisen to depart, when Mrs. Stuart hurried into the apartment. “Ah! how do you do, sister?” he exclaimed, extending his hand. “Pretty well in body, but wretched in spirit. O dear! few know the horrors and sufferings we nervous women go through for the men’s sake.” “What is the trouble now?” he asked, with an air of solicitude.