University of Virginia Library

Glen's Creek.

1. CHAPTER I.
REMINISCENCES.

O'er Lake Erie's dark, deep waters,—across Ohio's
broad, rich lands, and still onward, among the graceful
forest trees, gushing springs, and fertile plains of Kentucky,
rests in quiet beauty, the shady hillside, bright
green valley, and dancing waterbrook, known as Glen's
Creek. No stately spire or glittering dome point out the
spot to the passing traveler, but under the shadow of the
lofty trees, stands a large brick edifice, which has been
consecrated to the worship of God. There, each Sabbath,
together congregate the old and young, the lofty and the
lowly, bond and free, and the incense which from that altar
ascends to heaven is not the less pure, because in that
secluded spot the tones of the Sabbath bell never yet were
heard. Not far from the old brick church are numerous,
time stained grave-stones, speaking to the living of the
pale dead ones, who side by side lie sleeping, unmindful
of the wintry storm or summer's fervid heat.

A little farther down the hill, and near the apple tree,
whose apples never get ripe, stands a low white building,
— the school house of Glen's Creek. There, for several
years, “Yankee schoolmasters,” one after another, have
tried by turns the effect of moral suasion, hickory sticks,

and leathern straps on the girls and boys who there assemble,
some intent upon mastering the mysteries of the
Latin reader, and others thinking wistfully of the miniature
mill-dam and fish-pond in the brook at the foot of the
hill, or of the play-house under the maple tree, where the
earthens are each day washed in the little “tin bucket,”
which serves the treble purpose of dinner-pail, wash-bowl,
and drinking-cup.

But not with Glen's Creek as it now is has our story
aught to do, although few have been the changes since, in
the times long gone, the Indian warrior sought shelter
from the sultry August sun, 'neath the boughs of the shady
buckeye or towering honey locust, which so thickly stud
the hillside of Glen's Creek. Then, as now, the first
spring violet blossomed there, and the earliest crocus grew
near the stream whose waters sang as mournfully to the
dusky maiden of the forest, as they since have to the fair
daughter of the pale-face.

The incidents about to be narrated are believed to have
taken place near the commencement of the nineteenth
century, when the country of Kentucky, from Lexington
to Louisville, was one entire forest, and when, instead of
the planter's handsome dwelling, now so common, there
was only the rude log hut surrounded, perhaps, by a few
acres of half cleared land. Brave, indeed, must have been
the heart of the hardy yeoman, who, forsaking the home
of his fathers, went forth into the wilds of Kentucky, and
there, amid dangers innumerable, laid the foundation of
the many handsome towns which now dot the surface of
that fair state. Woman, too, timid, shrinking woman,
was there, and in moments of the most appalling danger,
the daring courage she displayed equaled that shown by
her husband, father and brother. Often on the still midnight
air rang out the fearful war-cry, speaking of torture

and death to the inmates of the rude dwelling, whose
flames, rising high over the tree tops, warned some other
lonely settler that the enemy was upon his track.

But spite of all dangers and difficulties, the tide of emigration
poured steadily in upon Kentucky, until where
once the Indian hunter and wild beast held undisputed
sway, there may now be seen fertile gardens and cultivated
fields, handsome towns and flourishing cities.

2. CHAPTER II.
DEACON WILDER.

Brightly looked forth the stars on one February night,
while the pale moon, yet in its first quarter, hung in the
western sky, illuminating as far as was possible the little
settlement of P—, Virginia. In a large square building,
the house of Deacon Wilder, there was a prayer
meeting, consisting mostly of members from “the first
families in Virginia.”

In this meeting Deacon Wilder took a prominent part,
although there was an unusually mournful cadence in the
tones of his voice; and twice during the reading of the
psalm was he obliged to stop for the purpose of wiping
from his eyes two large tear-drops, which seemed sadly
out of place on the broad, good-humored face of the deacon.
Other eyes there were, too, on whose long lashes
the heavy moisture glistened, and whose faces told of
some sad event, which either had happened or was about
to happen. The cause of all this sorrow was this: Ere
the night for the weekly prayer meeting again came, Deacon

Wilder and his family, who were universally liked,
would be far on the road toward a home in the dense forests
of Kentucky. In that old-fashioned kitchen were
many who had come long, weary miles for the sake of
again shaking the deacon's hand, and again telling his
gentle wife how surely their hearts would go with her to
her home in the far west.

The meeting proceeded decently and in order, as meetings
should, until near its close, when Deacon Wilder, for
the last time, lifted up his voice in prayer with the loved
friends and neighbors he was leaving. At this point, the
grief of the little company burst forth unrestrainedly. The
white portion of the audience gave vent to their feelings
in tears and half smothered sobs, while the blacks, of
whom there was a goodly number present, manifested
their sorrow by groans and loud lamentations.

Among these was an old negro named Cato, who, together
with his wife Dillah, had formerly belonged to
Deacon Wilder's father, but on his death they had passed
into the possession of the oldest son, Capt. Wilder, who
lived within a stone's throw of his brother. Old Cato
was decidedly a Methodist in practice, and when in the
course of his prayer Deacon Wilder mentioned that in all
human probability he should never on earth meet them
again, old Cato, who was looked upon as a pillar by his
colored brethren, forgetting in the intensity of his feelings
the exact form of words which he wanted, fervently ejaculated,
“Thank the Lord!” after which Dillah, his wife,
uttered a hearty “Amen!”

This mistake in the choice of words was a slight setback
to the deacon, who was feeling, perhaps, a trifle
gratified at seeing himself so generally regretted. But
Cato and Dillah were a well-meaning couple, and their
mistake passed unnoticed, save by the young people, who

smiled a little mischievously. The meeting continued until
a late hour, and the hands of the long Dutch clock
pointed the hour of midnight, ere the windows of Deacon
Wilder's dwelling were darkened, and its inmates were
dreaming, may be, of a home where good-bys and partings
were unknown.

Next morning, long before the sun had dallied with the
east until over its gray cheek the blushes of daylight were
stealing, the deacon's family were astir. Fires were lighted
in the fire-place, candles were lighted in the candlesticks,
and breakfast was swallowed in a space of time altogether
too short for the credulity of modern dyspeptics. Then
commenced the exciting process of “pulling down” and
“packing up.” Bedsteads were knocked endwise, bed-clothes
were thrown all ways, crockery was smashed, and
things generally were put where there was no possible
danger of their being found again for one twelve-month.
Deacon Wilder scolded, his wife Sally scolded, old Cato
and Dillah, who had come over to superintend matters,
scolded, the other negroes ran against each other and
every way, literally doing nothing except “'clarin' they's
fit to drap, they's so tired,” while George, the deacon's
oldest son, looked on, quietly whistling “Yankee Doodle.”

In the midst of all this hubbub, little Charlie, a bright,
beautiful, but delicate boy of nine summers, crept away
to the foot of the garden, and there, on a large stone under
a tall sugar maple, his face buried in his hands, he
wept bitterly. Poor Charlie! he was taking his first lesson
in home-sickness, even before his childhood's home
had disappeared from view. He had always been opposed
to emigrating to Kentucky, which, in his mind, was all
“dark, dark woods,” where each member of the family
would be tomahawked by the Indians every day, at least,
if not oftener.

But Charlie's tears were unavailing,—the old homestead
was sold, the preparations were nearly completed,
and in a few hours he would bid good-by to the places he
loved so well. “I shall never sit under this tree again,”
said the weeping boy, “never again play in the dear old
brook; and when I die there, I shall be afraid to lie alone
in the dark woods, and there will be none but our folks
to cry for me, either.”

A soft footstep sounded near, two little arms were
wound round Charlie's neck, and a childish voice whispered,
“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, I will cry when I hear you
are dead, and if you will send for me before you die, I
will surely come.”

It was Ella, his cousin. She was a year his junior, and
since his earliest remembrance she had been the object of
his deepest affection. Together they had played in the
forest shade, together in the garden had they made their
flower beds, and together had they mourned over torn
dresses, lost mittens, bumped heads, nettle stings, and so
forth. It is not altogether improbable that Charlie's grief
arose partly from the fact that Ella must be left behind.
He had always been delicate, and had frequently talked
to Ella of dying, so that she readily believed him when he
told her he should die in Kentucky; she believed, too,
that she should see him again ere he died. Did she believe
aright? The story will tell you, but I shall not.

3. CHAPTER III.
CATO AND DILLAH.

Everything was in readiness except the little wagon
which was to convey the best looking-glass, the stuffed
rocking chair, Mrs. Wilder, and Charlie. On an old
stump near the gate sat Aunt Dillah, industriously wiping
the tears from her dusky cheeks, and ever and anon exclaiming,
“'Pears like I could bar it better, if I was gwine
with them.”

This remark was overheard by her master, Capt. Wilder.
He had frequently heard Cato express the same
wish, and thought it quite natural, too, inasmuch as Jake,
their only child, was to accompany the deacon. For a
moment the captain stood irresolute. We will not say
what thoughts passed through his mind, but after a time
he turned away and went in quest of his brother. There
was a short consultation, and then Capt. Wilder, returning
to Dillah, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said,
“Aunt Dillah, would it please you and Cato to go to Kentucky,
and be killed by the Indians along with Jake?”

“Lord bless you, marster, that it would,” said Dillah,
rolling up her eyes till only the whites were visible.

“Very well, you can go,” was Capt. Wilder's reply.

By this time old Cato and Jake had gathered near, and
the “Lord bless you's” which they poured in upon the
captain sent him into the house, out of sight and hearing.
But Dillah had no time to lose. Her goods and chattels
must be picked up, and old Cato's Sunday shirt must be
wrung out of the rinsing water, Dillah declaring, “she
could kind o'shake it out and dry it on the road!” While
putting up her things, the old creature frequently lamented

the unfortunate fact, that the new gown given her last
Christmas by “old Miss,” was not made, “for,” said she,
“I shall want to look toppin' and smart-like amongst the
folks in Kentuck.”

“Ain't no folks thar,” said Jake; but as often as he
repeated this assertion, Aunt Dillah answered, “Now and
then one, I reckon, 'less why should marster tote the
whole on us out thar.”

“For the Injuns to eat, I s'pose,” answered Jake, and
then he went through with a short rehearsal of what his
mother would say, and how she would yell, when one of
the natives got her in his grip. Little Ella wept passionately
when she learned that Dillah, too, was going, but
when Charlie, stealing up to her, said, “she will take care
of me,” her tears were dried, and her last words to Dillah
were, “Be kind to Charlie till he dies.”

Sweet Ella, it would seem that a foreshadowing of the
future had fallen around her, for when at last Charlie's
farewell kiss was warm upon her cheek, her voice was
cheerful, as she said, “You will send for me and I shall
surely come.” Could she have known how long and wearisome
were the miles, how dark and lonely was the wood,
and how full of danger was the road which lay between
herself and Charlie's future home, she might not have been
so sure that they would meet again.

One after another the wagons belonging to Deacon
Wilder passed down the narrow road, and were lost to
view in the deep forest which stretched away to the west
as far as the eye could reach. Here for a short time we
will leave them, while we introduce to our readers another
family, whose fortunes are closely interwoven with our
first party.

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE GORTONS.

Five years prior to the emigration of Deacon Wilder,
Mr. Gorton, a former neighbor, had, with his family, removed
to Kentucky, and found a home near Lexington.
Around his fireside in Virginia once had gathered three
young children, Robert, Madeline and Marian. Robert,
the eldest, was not Mr. Gorton's son, but the child of a
sister, Mrs. Hunting, who on her death-bed had bequeathed
her only boy to the care of her brother. Madeline, when
three years of age, was one day missed from her father's
house. Long and protracted search was made, which resulted,
at length, in the discovery of a part of the child's
dress near a spot where lay a pool of blood, and the mutilated
remains of what was probably once the merry,
laughing Madeline. As only a few of the bones and a
small part of the flesh was left, it was readily supposed
that the wolves, of which there were many at that time
in the woods, had done the bloody deed. Amid many
tears the remains were gathered up, placed in a little coffin,
and buried beneath the aged oak, under which they
were found. Years passed on, and the lost Madeline
ceased to be spoken of save by her parents, who could
never forget.

Marian, the youngest and now the only remaining
daughter of Mr. Gorton, was, at the time of her father's
emigration, fourteen years of age. She was a fair, handsome
girl, and already toward her George Wilder, who
was four years her senior, had turned his eyes, as toward
the star which was to illuminate his future horizon. But
she went from him, and thenceforth his heart yearned for

the woods and hills of Kentucky, and it was partly through
his influence that his father had finally determined to remove
thither. Thus, while Charlie, creeping to the far
end of the wagon, wept as he thought of home and Ella,
George was anticipating a joyous meeting with the beautiful
Marian, and forming plans for the future, just as thousands
have done since and will do again.

5. CHAPTER V.
THE NEW HOME.

It is not our intention to follow our travelers through
the various stages of their long, tiresome journey, but we
will with them hasten on to the close of a mild spring afternoon,
when the whole company, wearied and spiritless,
drew up in front of a large, newly built log house, in the
rear of which were three smaller ones. These last were
for the accommodation of the negroes, who were soon
scattering in every direction, in order to ascertain, as soon
as possible, all the conveniences and inconveniences of
their new home. It took Aunt Dillah but a short time to
make up her mind that “Kentuck was an ugly-looking,
out-of-the-way place, the whole on't; that she wished to
gracious she's back in old Virginny;” and lastly, that
“she never should have come, no how, if marster hadn't
of 'sisted and 'sisted, till 'twasn't in natur to 'fuse.”

This assertion Aunt Dillah repeated so frequently, that
she at length came to believe it herself. The old creature
had no idea that she was not the main prop of her master's
household, and we ourselves are inclined to think

that Mrs. Wilder, unaided by Dillah's strong arm, ready
tact, and encouraging words, could not well have borne
the hardships and privations attending that home in the
wilderness. Weary and heart-sick, she stepped from the
little wagon, while an expression of sadness passed over
her face as her eye wandered over the surrounding country,
where tract after tract of thick woodland stretched
on and still onward, to the verge of the most distant
horizon.

Dillah, better than any one else, understood how to
cheer her mistress, and within an hour after their arrival,
a crackling fire was blazing in the fire-place, while the old
round iron tea-kettle, or rather its contents, were hissing
and moaning, and telling, as plainly as tea-kettle could tell,
of coming good cheer. At length the venison steaks and
Dillah's short-cake, smoking hot, were placed upon the
old square table, and the group which shared that first
supper at Glen's Creek, were, with the exception of Charlie,
comparatively contented. He, poor child, missed the
scenes of his early home, and more than all, he missed his
playmate, Ella.

Long after the hour of midnight went by, he stood by
his little low window near the head of his bed, gazing up
at the hosts of shining stars, and wondering if they were
looking upon his dear old home, even as they looked down
upon him, homesick and lonely, afar in the wilderness of
Kentucky.

6. CHAPTER VI.
ORIANNA.

Weeks passed on, and within and without Deacon
Wilder's door were signs of life and civilization. Trees
were cut down, gardens were made, corn and vegetables
were planted, and still no trace of an Indian had been
seen, although Jake had frequently expressed a wish to
get a shot at the “varmin,” as he called them. Still, he
felt that it would be unwise to be caught out alone at any
very great distance from his master's dwelling.

This feeling was shared by all of Deacon Wilder's household,
except Charlie, who frequently went forth alone into
the forest shade, and rambled over the hills where grew
the rich wild strawberry and the fair summer flowers, and
where, too, roamed the red man; for the Indian was there,
jealously watching each movement of his white brother,
and waiting for some provocation to strike a deadly blow.
But Charlie knew it not, and fearlessly each day he plunged
deeper and deeper into the depths of the woods, taking
some stately tree or blighted stump as a way-mark by
which to trace his homeward road, when the shadows began
to grow long and dark.

Although he knew it not, Charlie had a protector, who
each day, in the shady woods and wild gullies of Glen's
Creek, awaited his coming. Stealthily would she follow
his footsteps, and when on the velvety turf he laid him
down to rest, she would watch near him, lest harm should
befall the young sleeper. It was Orianna, the only and
darling child of Owanno, the chieftain whose wigwam was
three miles west of Glen's Creek, near a spot called Grassy
Spring.

Orianna had first been attracted toward Charlie by seeing
him weep, one day, and from a few words which he
involuntarily let fall, she learned that his heart was not
with the scenes wherein he dwelt, but was far away toward
the “rising sun.” Orianna's heart was full of kindly
sympathy, and from the time when she first saw Charlie
weeping in the forest, she made a vow to the Great Spirit
that she would love and protect the child of the “pale-face.”
The vow thus made by the simple Indian maiden
was never broken, but through weal and woe it was faithfully
kept.

It was a long time ere Orianna ventured to introduce
herself to her new friend; but when she did so, she was
delighted to find that he neither expressed fear of her,
nor surprise at her personal appearance. From that time
they were inseparable, although Orianna exacted from
Charlie a promise not to mention her at home, and also
resisted his entreaties that she would accompany him
thither. In reply to all his arguments, she would say,
mournfully, “No, Charlie, no, the pale-face is the enemy
of my people, although Orianna never can think they are
enemies to her; and sometimes I have wished,—it was
wicked I know, and the Great Spirit was angry,—but I
have wished that I, too, was of the fair-haired and white-browed
ones.”

In Charlie's home there was much wonder as to what
took him so regularly to the woods, but he withstood their
questioning and kept his secret safely. In the wigwam,
too, where Orianna dwelt, there was some grumbling at
her frequent absences, but the old chieftain Owanno and
his wife Narretta loved their child too well to prohibit
her rambling when and where she pleased. This old
couple were far on the journey of life, when Orianna came
as a sunbeam of gladness to their lone cabin, and thenceforth

they doted upon her as the miser doats upon his
shining gold.

She was a tall, graceful creature of nineteen or twenty
summers, and her life would have been one of unbounded
happiness, had it not been for one circumstance. Near
her father's wigwam lived the young chief Wahlaga, who,
to a most ferocious nature, added a face horridly disfigured
by the many fights in which he had been foremost.
A part of his nose was gone, and one eye entirely so; yet
to this man had Owanno determined to wed his beautiful
daughter, who looked upon Wahlaga with perfect disgust,
and resolved, that sooner than marry him, she would perish
in the deep waters of the Kentucky, which lay not
many miles away.

7. CHAPTER VII.
MARIAN.

The deacon and his family had now been residents at
Glen's Creek nearly three months. Already was the leafy
month of June verging into sultry July, when George
Wilder at length found time to carry out a plan long before
formed. It was to visit Marian, and if he found her
all which as a child she had promised to be, he would win
her for himself.

Soon after the early sun had touched the hill tops as
with a blaze of fire, George mounted his favorite steed,
and taking Jake with him for a companion, turned into
the woods and took the lonely road to Lexington. Leaving

them for a moment, we will press on and see Marian's
home.

It was a large, double log building, over which the
flowering honeysuckle and dark green hop-vine had been
trained until they formed an effectual screen. The yard
in front was large, and much taste had been displayed in
the arrangement of the flowers and shrubs which were
scattered through it. Several large forest trees had been
left standing, and at one end of the yard, under a clump
of honey-locusts, a limpid stream of water, now nearly dry,
went dancing over the large flat limestones which lay at
the bottom. In the rear of the house was the garden,
which was very large, and contained several bordered
walks, grassy plats, and handsome flower-beds, besides vegetables
of all descriptions. At the end of the garden, and
under the shadows of the woods, was a little summer-house,
over which a wild grape-vine had been taught to
twine its tendrils.

In this summer-house, on the morning of which we are
speaking, was a beautiful young girl, Marian Gorton. We
have not described her, neither do we intend to, for she
was not as beautiful as heroines of stories usually are;
but, reader, we will venture that she was as handsome as
any person you have ever seen, for people were handsomer
in those days than they are now,— at least our grand-parents
tell us so. Neither have we told her age, although
we are sure that we have somewhere said enough on that
point to have you know, by a little calculation, that Marian
was now eighteen.

This morning, as she sits in the summer-house, her brow
is resting on her hand, and a shadow is resting on her
brow. Had Marian cause for sorrow? None, except
that her cousin Robert, who had recently returned from
England, had that morning offered her his hand and been

partially refused. Yet why should Marian refuse him,
whom many a proud lady in the courtly halls of England
would not refuse? Did she remember one who, years
ago, in the green old woods of Virginia, awakened within
her childish heart a feeling, which, though it might have
slumbered since, was still there in all its freshness? Yes,
she did remember him, although she struggled hard to
conquer each feeling that was interwoven with a thought
of him. Nearly three months he had been within twenty
miles of her, and yet no word or message had been received,
and Marian's heart swelled with resentment toward
the young man, whose fleet steed even then could
scarce keep pace with his master's eager wishes to press
onward.

From her earliest childhood she had looked upon Robert
as a brother, and now that he was offered as a husband,
her heart rebelled, although pride occasionally
whispered, “Do it,—marry him,—then see what George
Wilder will say;” but Marian had too much good sense
long to listen to the promptings of pride, and the shadow
on her face is occasioned by a fear that she had remembered
so long and so faithfully only to find herself uncared
for and forgotten.

Meantime, the sound of horses' feet near her father's
house had brought to the fence half a dozen negroes and
half as many dogs, all ready in their own way to welcome
the new comers. After giving his horse in charge of the
negroes, George proceeded to the house, where he
was cordially received by Mrs. Gorton, who could scarcely
recognize the school-boy George, in the tall, fine looking
young man before her. Almost his first inquiry was
for Marian. Mrs. Gorton did not know where she was,
but old Sukey, who had known George in Virginia, now
hobbled in, and after a few tears, and a great many

“Lor' bless you's,” and inquiries about “old Virginny,”
she managed to tell him that Marian was in the garden,
and that she would call her; but George prevented her,
saying he would go himself.

Most of my readers have doubtless either witnessed or
experienced meetings similar to that which took place between
George and Marian, so I shall not describe it, but
shall leave it for the imagination, which will probably do
it better justice than can my pen, which comes very near
the point of being used up. We will only say, that when
at twelve o'clock Mr. Gorton and Robert returned from
a ride, George and Marian were still in the summer-house,
unmindful of the sun which looked in upon them as if to
tell them of his onward course. But then, the question
that morning asked and answered, was of great importance,
so 'twas no wonder that they were alike deaf and
blind to the little darkies, who on tip-toe crept behind
the summer-house, eager to know “what the strange gentleman
could be saying to Miss Marian, which made her
look so speckled and roasted like.” These same hopefuls,
when at dinner time they were sent for their young
mistress, commenced a general hunt, which finally terminated
in the popping of their woolly heads into the summer-house
door, exclaiming between breaths, “Oh, Miss
Marian, here you is. We 've looked for you every whar!
Come to your dinner.” On their way to the house they
encountered old Sukey, who called out, “Ho, Mas' George,
—'specs mebby you found Miss Marry-'em,” at the same
time shaking her sides at her own wit.

Mr. Gorton received his young friend with great cordiality,
but there was a cool haughtiness in the reception
which Robert at first gave his old playmate. He suspected
the nature of George's visit, nor did Marian's bright, joyous
face tend in the least to allay his suspicions. But not

long could he cherish feelings of resentment toward
one whom he liked so well as he had George Wilder. In
the course of an hour his reserve wore off, and unless
George should chance to see this story,—which is doubtful,—he
will probably never know how bitter were the
feelings which his presence for a few moments stirred in
the heart of Robert Hunting. Before George returned
home, he asked Marian of her father, and also won from
her a promise that, ere the frosts of winter came, her
home should be with him, and by his own fireside.

8. CHAPTER VIII.
ROBERT AND ORIANNA.

There was much talk and excitement in Deacon Wilder's
family, when it was known that in a little more than
three months' time a young maiden would come among
them, who would be at once daughter, sister and mistress.
From Jake, the negroes had received most of their information,
and verily George himself would scarcely have
recognized Marian in the description given of her by his
servant. So many beauties and excellences were attributed
to her, that the negroes were all on the qui vive to
see this paragon.

Charlie, too, was delighted, and when next day he as
usual met Orianna in the woods, he led her to a mossy
bank, and then communicated to her the glad tidings.
When he repeated to her the name of his future sister-in-law,
he was greatly surprised at seeing Orianna start
quickly to her feet, while a wild light flashed from her

large black eye. Soon reseating himself, she said, calmly,
“What is it, Charlie?” What is the name of the white
lady?”

“Marian,—Marian Gorton,” repeated Charlie. “Do
you not think it a pretty name?”

Orianna did not answer, but sat with her small, delicate
hands pressed tightly over her forehead. For a moment
Charlie looked at her in wonder; then taking both her
hands in his, he said, gently, “Don't feel so, Orianna. I
shall love you just as well, even if I do have a sister
Marian.”

Orianna's only answer was, “Say her name again,
Charlie.”

He did so, and then Orianna repeated, “Marian,—Marian,—what
is it? Oh, what is it? Marian;—it sounds
to Orianna like music heard years and years ago.”

“Perhaps it was a dream,” suggested Charlie.

“It must have been,” answered Orianna, “but a pleasant
dream, fair as the young moon or the summer flowers.
But tell me more, Charlie.”

“I will do so,” said he, “but I am afraid you will forget
your lesson.”

He had been in the habit of taking to the woods some
one of his reading books, and in this way he had unconsciously
awakened in Orianna a desire for learning. For
some time past a part of each day had been spent in
teaching her the alphabet. It was an interesting sight,
that dark, handsome girl, and the fair, pale boy,—he in
the capacity of a patient teacher, and she the ambitious
scholar.

On the afternoon of the day of which we are speaking,
they were, as usual, employed in their daily occupation.
The excitement of the occasion heightened the rich glow
on Orianna's cheek, while the wreath of white wild flowers,

which Charlie had woven and placed among her shining
black hair, gave her the appearance of some dark
queen of the forest. The lesson was nearly completed,
and Charlie was overjoyed to find that his pupil knew every
letter, both great and small, when they were startled
by the sound of a footstep, and in a moment Robert
Hunting, who had accompanied George Wilder home
from Lexington, stood before them.

Swiftly as a deer Orianna bounded away, while Charlie,
in evident confusion, attempted to secrete his book, and
Robert burst into a loud laugh, saying, “Well done,
Charlie! So you 've turned schoolmaster, and chosen a
novel pupil, upon my word. But who is she? If she
be a native, she is handsomer far than half the white
girls!”

“She is Orianna,” said Charlie, “the daughter of a
chieftain, and I love her, too.

“Nobility, hey?” said Robert laughing. “Better
yet. But what made her run so? Did she think I was
the evil one? Can't you call her back?”

“She won't come,” answered Charlie, “she don't like
you, and I can't make her.”

“So you have been saying a word in my favor, have
you?” said Robert, a little sareastically. “Greatly
obliged to you, Master Charlie. But I prefer doing my
own pleading.”

“I didn't mean you,” said Charlie, a little indignantly.
“She don't know that there is such a thing as you. I
meant all the white folks.”

“Oh, you did,” answered Robert, looking wistfully in
the direction where Orianna had disappeared.

At that moment there was the report of a rifle, and a
ball passed between him and Charlie and lodged in a tree
a few feet distant.

“Soho,” exclaimed Robert, “was n't content with
sending an arrow at my heart, but must hurl a bullet at
my head.”

Charlie was confounded. He never for a moment
doubted that Orianna had sent the ball, and a fearful distrust
of her filled his heart. A week went by, and still
he neglected to take his accustomed walk, although he
noticed that Robert went daily in his stead.

At length one morning Robert came to him and said,
“Orianna bade me tell you that each day, 'neath the
buckeye tree, she's watched for you in vain.”

Charlie's eyes opened wide with astonishment, as he
exclaimed, “Orianna? Where have you seen Orianna?”

“Where should I see her, pray, but in the woods?”
answered Robert. “We have spent the last five days
together, there, and I have taken your place as teacher.”

Here we may as well explain what the reader is doubtless
anxious to know. The bullet which passed between
Robert and Charlie was not sent by the hand of Orianna,
but by the vicious Wahlaga, whose curiosity had been
roused as to what led Orianna so frequently to the woods.
On that day he had followed and discovered her, just at
the moment when Robert appeared before her. The
jealous savage, thinking that he looked upon his rival,
made ready his gun, when Orianna, suddenly coming
upon him, threw aside his arm, thus changing the course
of the ball, while at the same time, she led the excited
Indian away, and at length succeeded in convincing him
that never before had she seen Robert, nor did she even
know who he was.

The next morning Orianna was overjoyed to learn that
Wahlaga was about leaving home, to be absent an indefinite
length of time. Her happiness, however, was soon
clouded by some expressions which he let fall, and from

which she gathered that her father had promised to give
her in marriage as soon as he should return. “It shall
never be; no, never,” said the determined girl, as, immediately
after his departure, she took the narrow footpath
to the woods of Glen's Creek.

Throughout all the morning she waited in vain for Charlie,
although she several times saw Robert at a distance,
and felt sure that he was looking for her. She knew that
she had saved his life, and this created in her a desire to
see him again. Accordingly, when that afternoon they
once more came suddenly face to face, she did not run,
but eagerly asked after her young companion. Robert
knew well how to play his part, and in a few moments
Orianna's shyness had vanished, and she was answering,
with ready obedience, all the questions asked her by the
handsome stranger. Ere they parted, Robert had learned
that to her he owed his life, and as a token of his gratitude
he placed upon her slender finger a plain gold ring.
He did not ask her to meet him again, next day, but he
well knew she would, for she, who knew no evil, thought
no evil.

As Robert had said, he took Charlie's place as teacher;
but, ah me! the lessons thus taught and received were
of a far different nature from the alphabet in Charlie's
picture-book. Many a time, ere that week went by, the
simple Indian girl, in the solitude of night, knelt by the
streamlet which ran by her father's door, and prayed the
Great Spirit to forgive her for the love which she bore
the white man, the enemy of her people;—and he?—why,
he scarce knew himself what his thoughts and intentions
were. He looked upon Orianna as a simple-minded, innocent
child; and while he took peculiar delight in studying
her character, he resolved that neither in word nor

deed would he harm the gentle girl who each day came
so timidly to his side.

Day after day was his stay at Glen's Creek protracted,
and yet he would not acknowledge that he was even
interested in her within whose heart a passion had
been awakened, never more to slumber. The day on
which he spoke to Charlie of Orianna, was the last which
he would spend at Glen's Creek, and as he did not wish
to be alone when he bade her adieu, he asked Charlie to
accompany him. Oh, how bright was the smile with
which the maiden greeted them at first, and how full of
despair was the expression of her face when told by Robert
that he must leave her. Not a word did she speak,
but closely to her heart she pressed the little Charlie, as
if fearful lest he, too, should go.

“Farewell, Orianna,” said Robert. “When the nuts
are brown upon the trees, look for me, for I shall come
again.”

A moment more, and he was gone,—gone with poor
Orianna's heart, and left her nothing in return. Covering
her face with her hands, she wept so long and bitterly,
that Charlie at last wound his arms around her neck, and
wept, too, although he knew not for what. This token
of sympathy aroused her, and after a moment she said,
“Leave me now, Charlie; Orianna would be alone.”
He arose to obey, when she added, “Don't tell them,—
don't tell him what you have seen.”

He promised secrecy, and Orianna was left alone. The
forest was dark with the shadows of coming night ere
she arose, and then the heart which she bore back to the
wigwam by Grassy Spring was sadder than any she had
ever before carried across the threshold of her home.
The next day Charlie noticed a certain listlessness about
his pupil, which he had never observed before; and

though her eye wandered over the printed page, her
thoughts were evidently away. At last a happy thought
struck him, and drawing closely to her, he whispered, “I
think Robert will be pleased if you learn to read.”

He had touched the right chord,—no other incentive
was needed,—and from that day her improvement was as
rapid as the most ambitious teacher could wish. Frequently
she would ask Charlie concerning Marian, requesting
him to repeat her name; then she would fall into
a fit of musing, saying, “When heard I that name? and
where was it? — oh, where?”

Yes, Orianna, Where was it?

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE BRIDAL.

Swiftly and on noiseless wing sped on old father Time,
and they who thought the summer would never pass,
were surprised when o'er the wooded hills the breath of
autumn came, bearing the yellow leaf — the first white
hair in nature's sunny locks. The golden harvests were
gathered in, and through the forest “the sound of dropping
nuts was heard,” showing that

It was the last day of October, and over the fading
earth the autumnal sun was shedding its rays as brightly
as in the early summer. The long shadows, stretching
far to the eastward, betokened the approach of night, and

when at last the sun sank to its western home, the full
moon poured a flood of soft, pale light over the scene,
and looking in at a half opened window, shone upon a
beautiful young girl, who, with the love-light in her dark
blue eye, and woman's holy trust in her heart, was listening,
or seeming to listen, while the words were said
which made her the wife of George Wilder.

Scarce was the ceremony completed, when the light
from the window was obscured, a shadow fell darkly upon
Robert, and a voice, clear and musical, uttered words
which curdled the blood of the fair bride, and made more
than one heart stand still with fear. They were, “The
Indians, the Indians! — they are coming in less than an
hour!”

The next moment a tall and graceful figure appeared
in the doorway, and laying its hand on Robert's shoulder,
exclaimed, “It is your life they seek, but Orianna will
save you!”

Then away glided the maiden, so noiselessly that but
for the tidings she brought, the party would almost have
doubted that she had been there. For a time the company
were mute with surprise, and involuntarily George
clasped closely to his side his Marian, as if to shield her
from the coming danger. At length, Mr. Gorton asked
Robert for an explanation of what the stranger had said.

Robert replied, “Two days since, I was hunting in the
woods not far from the house, when a rustling noise behind
some bushes attracted my attention. Without stopping
to think, I leveled my gun and fired, when behold!
up sprang an Indian girl, and bounded away so swiftly
that to overtake her and apologize was impossible. This
I suppose to be the reason why my life is sought.”

His supposition was correct, and for the benefit of the
reader we will explain how Orianna became possessed of

the secret. The night before, when returning to her father's
wigwam, she was startled by the sound of many
voices within. Curiosity prompted her to listen, and she
thus learned that the Indians who lived east of Lexington
had been insulted by a white man, who had fired at one
of their squaws. From the description of the aggressor,
she knew it to be Robert, and with fast beating heart she
listened to the plan of attacking Mr. Gorton's dwelling
on the night of the wedding.

Owanno heard them to the end, and then, to Orianna's
great delight, he refused to join them, saying he was now
too old to contend with the pale-face, unless himself or
family were molested. The old chief would not acknowledge
how much this decision was owing to the influence
of his gentle daughter. He knew she liked the whites,
and he knew, too, another thing,—but 'tis not time for
that yet.

Orianna had now something to do. A life dearer far
than her own was to be saved, and Marian, too,—whose
very name had a power to thrill each nerve of that noble
Indian girl,—she was in danger.

The next day Charlie waited in vain for his pupil, for
she was away on her mission of love, and the stern
features of many an Indian relaxed as he welcomed to
his cabin the chieftain's daughter. Ere the sun set she
fully understood their plan of attack, and then, unmindful
of the twenty-five miles traversed since the dawn of
day, she hied her back to Lexington, to raise its inhabitants,
and as we have seen, to apprise the bridal party
of their danger.

Not a moment was to be lost, and while they were consulting
as to their best means of safety, the Indian girl
again stood among them, saying, “Let me advise you.
It is not the town they wish to attack,—they will hardly

do that,—it is this house,—it is you,” laying her hand
convulsively on Robert's arm. “But there is yet time to
escape; flee to the town, and leave me here—”

“To be killed!” said Robert.

“To be killed!” she repeated, scornfully. “In all
Kentucky there lives not the red man who dares touch a
hair of Orianna's head.”

Her proposition seemed feasible enough, and after a little
hesitation it was resolved to adopt it. The negroes
had already done so, for at the first alarm they had taken
tot heir heels, and were byt his time half way to Lexington.
Thither the whites, with the exception of Robert,
soon followed. He resolutely refused to go, saying, in
answer to his friends' entreaties. “No, never will I desert
a helpless female. You remove the ladies to a place
of safety, and then with others return to my aid.”

So they were left alone, the white man and the Indian.
Together, side by side, they watched the coming of the
foe. At Orianna's direction the doors had been barricaded,
while the lights were left burning in order to
deceive the Indians into a belief that the inmates still
were there. A half hour went by, and then, in tones
which sent the blood in icy streams through Robert's
veins, Orianna whispered, “They come! Do you see
them? Look!”

He did look, and by the light of the moon he discerned
the outlines of many dusky forms, moving stealthily
through the woods in the direction of the house. The
garden fence was passed, and then onward, slowly but
surely, they came. So intent was Robert in watching
their movements, that he noted not the band of armed
men who, in an opposite direction, were advancing to the
rescue; neither did he observe in time to prevent it the
lightning spring with which Orianna bounded through

the window, and went forth to meet the enemy, who,
mistaking her for some one else, uttered a yell of savage
exultation and pressed on more fiercely. Loud and deafening
was the war-cry which echoed through the woods,
and louder still was the shout of defiance which rent the
air, as the whites came suddenly face to face with the astonished
Indians.

It was Orianna's intention, when she leaped from the
window, to reach the leader of the savages, and by telling
him the truth of the matter as she had heard it from
Robert, she hoped to dissuade him from his murderous
design. But her interference was not needed, for the
savages were surprised and intimidated by the unexpected
resistance, and in the fear and confusion of the moment
they greatly magnified the number of their assailants.
Accordingly, after a few random shots, they precipitately
fled, leaving Orianna alone with those whose lives she had
saved.

Almost caressingly Robert wound his arm about her
slight form, as he said, “Twice have you saved my life.
Now, name your reward, and if money—”

There was bitterness in the tone with which Orianna
interrupted him, saying, “Money! Orianna never
works for money. All she asks is that you let her go,
for the path is long which she must tread ere the sun's
rising.”

“To-night! You will not leave us to-night!” said
Robert.

“Urge me not,” answered Orianna, “for by the wig
wam door at Grassy Spring Narretta waits, and wonders
why I linger.”

Remonstrance was useless, for even while Robert was
speaking, she moved away, and the echo of her footfall
was scarcely heard, so rapid and cat-like was the tread

with which she disappeared in the darkness of the woods.
Robert looked thoughtfully after her for a time, and then,
with something very like a half smothered sigh, he turned
away. Could that sigh, faint as it was, have fallen on the
ear of the lone Indian girl, she would have felt fully repaid
for her toil, but now a weight of sorrow lay upon
her young heart, crushing each flower of gladness, even
as she, with impatient tread, crushed beneath her feet
the yellow leaves of autumn.

10. CHAPTER X.
ORIANNA'S FAITH.

Long had the old square table, with its cloth of snowy
whiteness and its load of eatables, waited the coming of
the bridal party. Many times had Mrs. Wilder stood in
the doorway, and strained her eyes to catch a sight of
the expected company, and more than many times had
old Dillah declared “that the corn cake which riz so nice
would be fell as flat as a pewer platter, if they didn't come
along.”

At length, from the top of a large old maple, in whose
boughs several young Africans were safely ensconced,
there came the joyful cry of, “There, they's comin'.
That's the new miss with the tail of her dress floppin'
round the horses' heels. Jimminy! ain't she a tall one!”
and the youngsters dropped to the ground, and perched
themselves, some on the fence and others on the gate,
with eyes and mouth open to whatever might happen.

In the doorway Mrs. Wilder received the bride, and

the ready tears gushed forth as for the first time in her
life she folded to her heart a daughter. From his stool
in the corner, Charlie came, and throwing his arms around
Marian's neck, he said, “I know I shall love you, for you
look so much like Orianna!”

Old Dillah, who was pressing forward to offer her congratulations,
was so much surprised that she forgot the
bow and fine speech which, for more than a week, she had
been practicing. Her command of language, however,
did not wholly desert her, for she said, somewhat warmly,
“Clar for 't, Master Charles, young miss won't feel much
sot up to be told she favors a black Injun.”

George, too, was evidently piqued at having his bride
likened to an Indian, but Robert came to Charlie's relief,
saying, “that he had often noticed how wholly unlike an
Indian were the features of Orianna, and that were her
skin a few shades lighter, she would be far more beautiful
than many pale-cheeked belles, with their golden curls
and snowy brows.”

The conversation now turned upon Orianna, and the
strong affection which existed between her and Charlie,
whom Robert teased unmercifully about his “dark-eyed
ladye love.”

Charlie bore it manfully, and ere the evening was spent,
he had promised to take Marian with him when next he
visited his Indian friend. This promise he fulfilled, and
the meeting between the two girls was perfectly simple
and natural. Both were prepared to like each other, and
both looked curiously, one at the other, although Marian
at last became uneasy at the deep, earnest gaze which
those full, black eyes bent upon her, while their owner
occasionally whispered, “Marian, Marian.”

Visions of sorcery and witchcraft passed before her
mind, and still, turn which way she would, she felt that

the dark girl's eyes were fixed upon her with a strangely
fascinating look. But fear not, young Marian, for though
she strokes your silken curls, and caressingly touches your
soft cheek, the forest maiden will do you no harm. At
length Marian's timidity gave way, and when she arose
to go, she did not refuse her hand to Orianna, who for a
time kept it between her own, as if admiring its whiteness;
then suddenly throwing it from her, she said, “Oh,
why can't Orianna be white and handsome, too!”

“You are handsome,” answered Marian. “Only two
evenings since I heard Robert Hunting say that you were
far more beautiful than half the white girls.”

“Who takes my name in vain?” said a musical voice,
as Robert himself appeared before them, and laid his
hand gently upon Orianna's glossy hair.

If Marian had any doubts of her beauty before, they
were now dispelled by the rich color which mounted to
her olive cheek, and the joy which danced in her large
eye. Yet 'twas not Robert's presence alone which so delighted
Orianna. A ray of hope had entered her heart.
“He thought her beautiful, and perhaps—perhaps—”

Ah, Orianna, think not that Robert Hunting will ever
wed an Indian, for Robert is no Rolfe, and you no Pocahontas!

As if divining and giving words to her thoughts, Robert,
while seating himself between the two girls, and placing
an arm around each, said, playfully, “Hang it all, Orianna,
why were you not white!”

“Don't, Bob,” whispered Marian, who with woman's
quick perception half suspected the nature of Orianna's
feelings for one whose life she twice had saved.

“Don't what, my little Puritan?” asked Robert.

“Don't raise hopes which you know can never be realized,”
answered Marian.

Robert was silent for a while, and then said, “I reckon
my orthodox cousin is right;” then turning to Orianna,
he asked how her reading progressed.

Charlie answered for her, saying that she could read in
words of one syllable as well as any one, and that she
knew a great deal besides! Robert was about testing her
powers of scholarship, when they were joined by George
Wilder, before whom Orianna absolutely refused to open
her mouth, and in a few moments she arose and left them,
saying, “I shall come again, to-morrow.”

That night, by the wigwam fire Narretta was listening
to her daughter's account of the “white dove,” as she
called Marian. Suddenly a light seemed to dawn on Orianna's
mind, and clasping her hands together, she said,
“Mother, do you remember when I was sick, many, many
moons ago?”

“Yes, child,” answered Narretta, and Orianna continued:
“I slept a long time, I know, but when I woke, I
remember that you, or some one else, said, “She is getting
white; it will never do.” Then I looked at my
hands, and they were almost as fair as Marian's, but you
washed me with something, and I was dark again. Tell
me, mother, was I turning white?”

“Turning white! No, child,” said Narretta; “now
shut up and get to bed.”

Orianna obeyed, but she could not sleep, and about
midnight she stole out at the door, and going to the
spring, for more than half an hour she bathed her face
and hands, hoping to wash off the offensive color. But
all her efforts were vain, and then on the withered leaves
she knelt, and prayed to the white man's God,—the God
who, Charlie had said, could do everything. “Make Orianna
white, make her white,” were the only words she
uttered, but around her heart there gathered confidence

that her prayer would be answered, and impatiently she
waited for the morrow's light.

“Mother, am I white?” aroused Narretta from her
slumbers, just as the first sunlight fell across the floor.

“White! No; blacker than ever,” was the gruff answer,
and Orianna's faith in “Charlie's God” was shaken.

11. CHAPTER XI.
PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY.

Charlie's health, which had always been delicate,
seemed much impaired by the Kentucky air, but with the
return of winter, there came the hacking cough and darting
pain, and Orianna already foresaw the time when,
with a flood of bitter tears, she would lay her darling in
the grave. The meetings in the woods were given up,
and if Orianna saw her pet at all, it was in his home,
where she at length became a regular visitor, and where
Marian daily taught her as Charlie had before done.
Many were the lessons learned in the sick-room where
Charlie lay, fading day by day, and many were the talks
which he had with his Indian friend concerning the God
whose power she questioned. But from the time when
she was able herself to read in Charlie's bible, the light
of truth slowly broke over her darkened mind.

From the commencement of Charlie's illness, he looked

upon death as sure, and his young heart went back to his
playmate, Ella, with earnest longings, which vented themselves
in pleadings that some one would go for her,—
would bring her to him and let him look upon her once
more ere he died. 'Twas in vain that his mother tried to
convince him of the impossibility of such a thing. He
would only answer, “I shall not know her in heaven, unless
I see her again, for I have almost forgotten how she
looked.”

Winter was gone, and Charlie, no longer able to sit up,
lay each day in his bed, talking of heaven and Ella, whom
he now scarcely hoped to see again. One afternoon Orianna
lingered longer than usual, in low, earnest conversation
with the sufferer. Charlie listened eagerly to what
she was saying, while his eye sparkled and his fading
cheek glowed as with the infusion of new life. As she
was about leaving she whispered, softly, “Never fear;
though the time be long, I will surely bring her.”

Yes, Orianna had resolved to go alone through the wilderness
to Virginia, and bring to the dying boy the little
Ella. Filled with this idea, she hastened home; but list,
—whose voice is it, that on the threshold of her father's
door makes her quake with fear? Ah, Orianna kens full
well that 'tis Wahlaga! He has returned to claim his
bride, and instantly visions of the pale, dying Charlie, the
far off Ella, and of one, too, whose name she scarcely
dared breathe, rose before her, as in mute agony she
leaned against the door.

But her thoughts soon resolved themselves into one
fixed determination—“I will never marry him;” and
then with a firm step she entered the cabin. Wahlaga

must have guessed her feelings, for he greeted her moodily,
and immediately left her with her parents. To her
father, she instantly confided her plan of going for Ella,
and as she had expected, he sternly forbade it, saying she
should stay and marry Wahlaga.

Owanno was surprised at the decided manner with
which Orianna replied, “Never, father, never. I will
die in the deep river first.”

At this juncture Wahlaga entered, and the discussion
grew warmer and more earnest. Words more angry the
chieftain spoke to his daughter than ever before he had
done. Suddenly his manner softened, and concerning her
going for Ella, he said, “If you marry Wahlaga, you can
go; otherwise you cannot, unless you run away.”

“And if she does that,” fiercely continued Wahlaga,
“I swear by the Great Spirit, I'll never rest until I've
shed the blood of every pale-face in that nest—sick whining
boy and all.”

Like one benumbed by some great and sudden calamity,
Orianna stood speechless, until her father asked,
“Will you go?”

Then, rousing herself, she said, “I cannot answer now;
wait till to-morrow.” Then forth from the cabin she went,
and onward through the fast deepening twilight she fled,
until through an opening in the trees she espied the light
which gleamed from Charlie's sick-room. Softly approaching
the window, she looked in and saw a sight
which stopped for a moment the tumultuous beatings of
her heart, and wrung from her a shriek of anguish. Supported
by pillows lay Charlie, panting for breath, while
slowly from his white lips issued drops of blood, which
Marian gently wiped away, while the rest of the family were
doing what they could to restore him. When Orianna's
loud cry of agony echoed through the room, Charlie

slowly unclosed his eyes, and in an instant the Indian
girl was beside him, exclaiming, wildly, “Charlie, Charlie,
do not die. I'll marry him, I'll go for her, I'll do anything.”

The astonished family at length succeeded in pacifying
her, by telling her that Charlie had, in a fit of coughing,
ruptured a blood vessel, but that there was no immediate
danger if she would keep quiet. Quickly the great agony
of her heart was hushed, and silently she stood by
the bedside; nor did they who looked on her calm face
once dream of the tornado within, or how like daggers
were the words of Charlie, who, in his disturbed sleep,
occasionally murmured, “Ella,—oh, Ella,—has Orianna
gone?—she said she would.”

Suddenly turning to Marian, Orianna, with a pressure
of the hand almost crushing, said, “Tell me what to do?”
and from the little cot, Charlie, all unconsciously answered,
“Go for Ella.”

“I will,” said Orianna, and ere Marian had recovered
from her astonishment, she was gone. When alone in the
forest, she at first resolved to start directly for Virginia,
but the remembrance of Wahlaga's threat prevented her,
and then again in the stilly night the heroic girl knelt and
asked of Charlie's God what she should do.

Owanno was surprised when, at a late hour that night,
Orianna returned, and expressed her willingness to marry
Wahlaga, on condition that she should first go for Ella,
and that he should not follow her.

“What proof have we that you will return?” asked
Wahlaga, who was present.

Orianna's lip curled haughtily, as she answered, “Orianna
never yet broke her word.”

“The tomahawk and death to those you love, if you

fail of coming,” continued the savage, and “Be it so,”
was the reply.

Old Narretta with streaming eyes would fain have interposed
a word for her beloved child, but aught from her
would have been unavailing. So on the poor girl's head,
which drooped heavily upon her lap, she laid her hard,
withered hands, and her tears fell soothingly on the
troubled heart of one who stood in so much need of
sympathy.

With the coming of daylight Orianna departed. Narretta
accompanied her a short distance, and learned from
her how much more than her life she loved the white man,
and that were it not for this, not half so terrible would be
her marriage with Wahlaga.

“I would help you if I could,” said Narretta, “but I cannot,
though each night I will ask the Great Spirit to take
care of you.”

So they parted, Narretta to return to her lone cabin,
and Orianna to pursue her way, she scarce knew whither.
For many days they missed her in the sick-room, where
all but Charlie wondered why she tarried, and he finally
succeeded in convincing them that she had really gone for
Ella, though at what a fearful sacrifice he knew not.

12. CHAPTER XII.
ELLA.

The town of P— is almost exactly east of Glen's
Creek, and by keeping constantly in that direction, Orianna
had but little difficulty in finding her way. In twelve
days' time she accomplished her journey, stopping for food

and lodging at the numerous wigwams which lay on her
road.

It was near the middle of the afternoon when, at last,
she entered the woods on the borders of which lay the
settlement of P—. Wearied with her day's toil, she
sought a resting-place beneath the same old oak where,
seventeen years before, Mr. Gorton had laid his little
Madeline; and the same large, rough stone which he had
placed there to mark the spot, and which had since fallen
down, now served her for a seat. But Orianna knew it
not, nor ever dreamed that often had Robert and Marian
stood there, the one listening tearfully, while the other
told her all he could remember of the sister who, in childish
playfulness, he had often called his little wife.

It was now near the first of April, and already had the
forest trees put forth many a dark green leaflet, while the
song birds gaily caroled of the coming summer; but Orianna
did not hear them. Sadly her heart went back to
her home, and what there awaited her. Weary and worn,
it is not strange that for a time she yielded to the despair
which had gathered about her heart. Covering her face
with her hands, she wept bitterly, nor until twice repeated
did she hear the words, “What makes you cry so?” uttered
in the soft tones of childhood.

Looking up, she saw before her a little girl, her deep
blue eyes filled with wonder and her tiny hands filled with
the wild flowers of spring.

Something whispered to Orianna that it was Ella, and
brushing away her tears, she answered, “Orianna is tired,
for she has come a long way.”

“What have you come for?” asked the child.

“Charlie sent me. Do you know Charlie?” and Orianna
looked earnestly at the little girl, whose blue eyes
opened wider, and whose tiny hands dropped the flowerets,

as she answered, “Charlie, my cousin Charlie? Have
you come from him? What word did he send me?”

“Walk with me and I will tell you,” said Orianna, rising
and taking by the hand the unresisting child, who,
with the ready instinct of childhood, could discriminate
between a friend and foe.

For more than an hour they walked rapidly on, Ella, in
her eagerness to hear from Charlie, never once thinking
how fast the distance between herself and her home was
increasing; nor had she a thought of her companion's intention,
until Orianna, suddenly lifting her in her arms,
said, “I promised Charlie I would bring you, and for that
have I come.”

Then a cry of fear burst from Ella, who struggled vainly
to escape from the arms which gently, but tightly, held
her. “Let me go, oh, please let me go,” she cried, as
Orianna's walk quickened into a run; but Orianna only
replied, “I told Charlie I would bring you, and I promise
you shall not be hurt.”

“Mother, oh, mother, who will tell my mother?” asked
Ella.

“I will send some one to her in the morning,” answered
Orianna; and then in order to soothe the excited child,
she commenced narrating anecdotes of Charlie and the
place to which they were going.

Finding it impossible to escape, Ella by degrees grew
calm, and as the night closed in, she fell asleep in the arms
of Orianna, who, with almost superhuman efforts, sped on
until a wigwam was reached. There for a short time she
rested, and won from a young Indian a promise that he
would next morning acquaint Capt. Wilder of the whereabouts
of his child. Fearing pursuit, she could not be prevailed
upon to stay all night, but started forward, still

keeping in her arms the little Ella, who at last slept as
soundly as ever she had done in her soft bed at home.

The night was far spent when Orianna finally stopped
beneath the shelter of a large, overhanging rock. The
movement aroused Ella, who instantly comprehending
where she was, again plead earnestly that she might go
home. Orianna soon convinced her that to return alone
was impossible, and then painted the meeting between herself
and Charlie so glowingly, that though her eyes were
full of tears, her voice was more cheerful, as she asked,
“And will you surely bring me back?”

“As yonder stars fade in the rising sun, so surely shall
you go home,” said Orianna. Then spreading in her lap
the blanket which, with ready forethought, she had
brought from home, she bade Ella lie down and sleep.

“And will you keep the bad Indians off?” asked Ella,
looking shudderingly around at the dark woods.

“No one will harm you while I am here,” was Orianna's
reply, and with the trusting faith of childhood Ella was
soon fast asleep, while Orianna carefully watched her
slumbers.

Once during her night vigils she was startled by the
distant cry of some wild beast, but it came not near, and
the morning found them both unharmed. Dividing with
her little charge the corn bread and cold venison which
had been procured at the wigwam, Orianna again set forward,
leading Ella by the hand, and beguiling the hours
in every possible way. The next night they passed in a
wigwam, where dusky faces bent curiously above the
“pale flower” as she slept, and where, next morning, in
addition to the bountiful supply of corn-cake and venison,
a bunch of spring violets was presented to Ella by an Indian
boy, who had gathered them expressly for the “white
pappoose,” as he called her.

Blest season of childhood, which gathers around it so
many who are ready to smooth the rough places and
pluck the sharp thorns which lie so thickly scattered on
life's pathway! It was Ella's talisman; for more than one
tall Indian, on learning her history from Orianna, cheerfully
lent a helping hand, and on his brawny shoulders carried
her from the sun's rising to its going down.

With Ella for a companion, Orianna proceeded but
slowly, and nearly three weeks were spent ere familiar
way-marks told her that they were nearing Lexington.
“In less than two days we shall be there,” she said to
Ella, as at the close of one day they drew near that town.

Lighter grew Ella's footsteps, and brighter was her eye,
while darker and deeper grew the shadows around poor
Orianna. She was right in her calculations, for on the afternoon
of the second day they struck into the narrow
footpath which led to Deacon Wilder's house, and which
she and Charlie oft had trodden.

Here for a time we will leave them, while in another
chapter we will read what has taken place since we in the
wilderness have been roaming.

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE DEATH-BED.

Anxiously as the sun was going down, did Mrs. Wilder
watch from her window for the return of her daughter,
and as the gray twilight deepened into night, and still
she came not, the whole household was alarmed, and
every house in the settlement was visited, to learn, if possible,

some tidings of the wanderer. Some remembered
having seen her enter the woods soon after dinner, but
farther than that none could tell; and the loud, shrill cry
of “Lost! lost! A child lost in the woods!” echoed on
the evening air, and brought from a distance many who
joined in the unsuccessful search, which lasted all night.
Morning came, and Mrs. Wilder, pale and distracted with
grief, ran hither and thither, calling loudly for her lost
darling.

Three hours of the sun's daily journey was accomplished,
when a young Indian was seen to emerge from the woods,
and rapidly approach the house of Capt. Wilder, where
he communicated all he knew concerning Orianna, and
ended his narrative by saying, “It will be useless to follow
her.”

But Capt. Wilder did not think so, and instantly mounting
his horse, he started in pursuit; but the path he took
was entirely different from the one chosen by Orianna,
and at night-fall he returned home, weary and discouraged.
For some time he had been contemplating a visit to his
brother, and he now resolved to do so, hoping by this
means to fall in with the fugitives. Mrs. Wilder warmly
approved the plan, but made him promise that if no good
news were heard of Ella, he would instantly return.

Taking with him two negroes, he started on his journey,
but no trace of Orianna did he discover, and he
reached Glen's Creek before she had accomplished half
the distance. Assured by his brother's family of Ella's
perfect safety with the Indian girl, he grew calm, although
he impatiently waited their coming.

Meantime, little Charlie had grown worse, until at last
he ceased to speak of Ella, although he confidently expected
to see her, and requested that his bed might be
moved to a position from which he could discern the path

which led up from the woods. There for many days he
watched, and then turning sadly away, he said, “Mother,
now take me back. Ella will come, but I shall be dead.”

From that time he grew worse, and the afternoon on
which we left Orianna and Ella in the woods was the last
he ever saw on earth. Gathered around the dying boy
were weeping friends, who knew that the mild spring sun
which so gently kissed his cold, pale brow, would never
rise again for him. Kind words he had spoken to all, and
then in a faint whisper, he said, “Tell Ella —;” but
the sentence was unfinished, for Ella stood before him,
while the look of joy that lighted up his face told how
dear to him was the little girl around whose neck his arms
twined so lovingly.

And now a darker face, but not less loving heart, approached,
and whispered softly, “Charlie, do you know
me?”

“Orianna,” was the answer, as on her lips a kiss was
pressed.

Then the arms unclasped from Ella's neck, over the
blue eyes the heavy eyelids closed, and Charlie had gone
home. With a bitter wail of sorrow Orianna bent for a
moment over the marble form, for which she had sacrificed
so much, and then, from among those who fain would
have detained her, she went, nor paused for a moment,
until the wigwam of her father was reached.

In the doorway she found Narretta, whose first exclamation
was, “Have you heard? Have they told you?
The Great Spirit has answered my prayer!” and then to
her daughter she unfolded a tale which we, too, will narrate
to our readers.

It will be remembered that on the day when Orianna
left home for Virginia, Narretta accompanied her a short
distance, and learned from her the story of her love for

Robert. To tnat story there was another,—an unobserved
listener,—Wahlaga, who from that hour resolved
to take the life of his pale rival, but his designs were foiled
by a summons from the invisible world, which he could
not disobey.

A week after Orianna's departure, he was taken ill of
a disease contracted at the Indian camp, where he had
spent the winter. All the skill of the “medicine man”
could not save him, and on the fifth day he died, cursing,
with his last breath, his hated rival.

When it was known at Deacon Wilder's that death had
been at Grassy Spring, words of kindly sympathy were
sent there for the sake of the noble Orianna; and for her
sake, perhaps, Owanno's feelings softened toward the inhabitants
of Glen's Creek. It is impossible to describe
Orianna's feelings on learning that the dreadful Wahlaga
was dead, really dead, and would trouble her no more.
Her whole being seemed changed, and the slumber which
that night stole o'er her was sweeter far and more refreshing,
than for many weary days had visited her.

At Glen's Creek that same night Capt. Wilder, with
his darling Ella pressed to his bosom, was listening, while
between her tears for little Charlie, she told him of the
many virtues of her Indian companion, urging him to
send for her mother, that she, too, might know and love
Orianna. But Ella's strength was exhausted long before
her theme, and when, as her voice ceased, her father
looked down upon her, she was far in the depths of
dreamland.

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE DENOUEMENT.

As if to mock the anguish of those who were about to lay
their last-born in the earth, the day of Charlie's funeral
was bright and beautiful, as the spring days often are
'neath the warm Kentucky sun. Sweetly the wild flowers
were blooming, and merrily sang the summer birds,
as underneath a maple tree, a tree which stands there yet,
they dug that little grave,— the first grave at Glen's
Creek. Mr. and Mrs. Gorton, Robert, and several others
from Lexington had come to shed the sympathizing tear
with the bereaved ones, but besides the nearest relatives,
there was not so sincere a mourner as she who, apart from
the rest, looked silently on, while into the earth they lowered
the cold, dead Charlie.

Long after the mourners had returned to their desolate
home, she lingered, and on the little mound deplored
in piteous tones her loss, saying, “Oh, woe is me, now
Charlie has crossed the great river, and left Orianna all
alone. Who will love me now, as he did?”

“Many, many,” answered Robert Hunting, who purposely
had returned, and been an eye and ear witness of
Orianna's grief. “Yes, many will love you,” he continued,
seating himself by her, and drawing her closely to
him. Then in the bewildered girl's ear he softly whispered,
“I am not worthy of you, Orianna, but I love you,
and I know, too, on what condition you went to Virginia,
and that had Wahlaga lived, he had sworn to murder me
and marry you.”

For this information he was indebted to Narretta, who,
three days before Wahlaga's illness, overhearing him unfold

his plan of revenge to Owanno, went to the door of Deacon
Wilder's house, and asking for Robert, led him to the
woods, and there communicated to him what he has just
told Orianna. Robert did not ask Orianna to be his
wife; and perhaps 'twas well that he did not, for the confession
which he did make, added to the excitement of
Wahlaga's and Charlie's death, was too much for a frame
already weakened by the hardships attending that journey
to and from Virginia. The next morning found her
burning with fever and raving with delirium. Owanno,
too, was smitten by the same disease which had consigned
Wahlaga to an early grave.

With anxious heart Narretta hurried from one sufferer
to the other, and the first Indian that looked in at the
door, was urged to go immediately to Deacon Wilder's
and ask some one to come to her. Robert and Marian
instantly obeyed the summons, but human skill could
not save Owanno. In three days after the commencement
of his illness, it was said of him that he had
gone to the fair hunting grounds, while the despairing
howl of the assembled Indians mingled with the mournful
wail of the widowed Narretta and the feeble moans
of Orianna, who incessantly cried, “Bury me under the
maple tree with Charlie, where we sat when he told me,—
where he told me,—” but what he told her she never
said.

At Marian's request, Mrs. Gorton had remained for
some time at Glen's Creek, and one day, not long after
Owanno's burial, she accompanied her daughter to see
Orianna, who, though very weak, was still much better.
They found her asleep, but Narretta arose to receive
them. As Mrs. Gorton's eye fell upon her, an undefined
remembrance of something past and gone rose before her,

and at last, taking the old Indian woman's hand, she said,
“Narretta, have I never met you before?”

“Plenty times,” was the laconic answer; and after a
moment's pause, Mrs. Gorton, continued: “I remember,
now, eighteen or twenty years ago your wigwam was
near my home in Virginia, and you one morning came to
me, saying you were going away toward the setting sun.”

“White woman remembers wonderful,” said old
Narretta.

“I might not remember so well,” answered Mrs. Gorton,
“but you loved my little Madeline, and about the
time you went away she died.”

Something out of doors attracted Narretta's attention,
and she abruptly turned away. For more than an hour
she was gone, and when she returned she was muttering
to herself, “Yes, I'll do it. I shall do it.”

“Do what?” asked Marian, a little alarmed at Narretta's
excited manner.

But Narretta made her no answer, and going up to
Mrs. Gorton, said rapidly, “Madeline did not die! Narretta
loved her, loved all children, but the Great Spirit
gave her no pappooses of her own, and when she went
away she stole her. She took her, and under the tree she
left a part of her clothing and the smashed carcass of a
young fawn, to make the white woman think the wolves
had eaten her up.”

Here she stopped, and Mrs Gorton, grasping the wasted
hand of Orianna, turned to Narretta and said, “Tell me,
tell me truly, if this be Madeline, my long lost daughter!”

“It is,” answered Narretta. “You know she was
never as fair as the other one,” pointing to Marian, “and
with a wash of roots which I made, she grew still blacker.”

She might have added, also, that constant exposure to
the weather had rendered still darker Orianna's complexion,

which was naturally a rich brunette. But whatever
else she might have said, was prevented by Mrs. Gorton,
who fell in a death-like swoon at her feet. The shock
was too great, to know that in the gentle Orianna, whose
noble conduct had won the love of so many hearts, she
beheld her long wept-for daughter Madeline.

Upon Marian and Orianna the knowledge that they
were sisters operated differently, according to their different
temperaments. With a cry of joy Marian threw
her arms around Orianna's neck, who, when made to comprehend
the reality, burst into tears, saying, “I thought I
should be white, someting,— I almost knew I should.”

By this time Mrs. Gorton had recovered from her fainting
fit, and clasping her newly found daughter to her bosom,
thanked the God who so unexpectedly had restored
her. The next day the news reached Lexington, bringing
thence Robert, who, in the intensity of his joy, seemed
hardly sane. At a glance he foresaw the future. Orianna,
for so he would always call her, should go to school
for five years, and at the end of that time, images of a
noble, beautiful bride, rose before him, as he hurriedly
traversed the road to Grassy Spring. Their interview we
shall not describe, for no one witnessed it, though Marian
impatiently remarked, “that it took Bob much longer to
tell what he had to say than it did George when he first
came to Lexington.” But then Marian had forgotten, as
who will not forget, or pretend to.

Old Narretta was the only one who seemed not to share
the general joy. She looked upon Orianna as lost to her
forever, and heard the plan of sending her to school with
unfeigned sorrow. Still, she made no objections to whatever
Mr. and Mrs. Gorton chose to do with their child;
and when Orianna was well enough, she gave her consent
that she should be removed to her father's house, where

every possible indulgence was lavished upon her by her
parents, in order to attach her to them and their mode of
life.

There was now no tie to bind Narretta to Grassy
Spring, and yielding to Orianna's entreaties, she accompanied
her to Lexington, occupying a cabin which Mr.
Gorton built for her on the edge of the wood at the foot
of the garden. Here, many times a day, she saw her child,
who was now Robert's daily pupil. But Robert found it
more difficult to tame his Indian girl than he had at first
anticipated. On one subject, that of dress, she for a time
seemed incorrigible. Occasionally she would assume the
style worn by Marian, but soon casting it off, she would
don her old costume, in which she felt and looked most at
home. But one day the Indian dress mysteriously disappeared.
More than a week Orianna sought for it in vain;
then, with a flood of tears, she yielded the point, and wore
whatever her friends thought proper. Her complexion,
too, with which great pains was taken, gradually grew
fair, until all trace of the walnut stain disappeared.

In October she was placed in the best school of which
Philadelphia could then boast. She was always shy and
timid, but her gentle manners and sweet disposition, to say
nothing of the romance connected with her history, made
her a general favorite with her companions, while the
eagerness with which she sought for knowledge, rendered
her equally a favorite with her teachers. In speaking of
this once, to her mother, who was visiting her, she said,
“When dear Charlie died, I thought there was no one
left to love me, but now it seems that every body loves
me.”

Here we will say a word concerning little Ella, who,
two days after Charlie's funeral, and before Orianna's parentage
was known, had gone home with her father to

Virginia. Almost constantly she talked of Orianna, and
on learning that she was Marian's sister, her delight was
unbounded. When intelligence was received that she had
been placed at school in Philadelphia, Capt. Wilder, yielding
to Ella's importunities, consented to send her there,
also. Ella had not taken into consideration how greatly
changed her Indian friend must necessarily be, and when,
on reaching Philadelphia, a beautiful young lady entered
the room, neatly and fashionably attired, she could scarcely
believe that it was her companion of the forest.

At Orianna's request they became room-mates, and it
was difficult to tell which was more child-like, the tall
maiden of twenty-one, or the curly-haired girl of nine.

Five years seems a long, long time, but to Orianna it
soon glided away, and then she left school, a much better
scholar than now is often graduated at our most fashionable
seminaries. During her stay in Philadelphia, she had become
greatly attached to the city, and Robert, whose
wealth would admit of his living where he pleased, purchased
a handsome dwelling, fitting it up according
to his own taste, which was rather luxurious.

Six years from the night of Marian's bridal, there was
another wedding at the house of Mr. Gorton, and Orianna,
now a beautiful woman of twenty-six, was the bride.
George and Marian both were present, together with a
lisping Charlie, and a dark-eyed baby “Orianna,” who
made most wondrous efforts to grasp the long diamond
earrings which hung from its auntie's ears, for, Indian-like,
Orianna's passion for jewelry was strong and well developed.

Old Narretta, too, was there, but the lovely young
creature whose head so fondly lay upon her lap, asking her
blessing, was unseen, for Narretta was now stone blind.
Already in her superstitious imagination warnings had

come from the spirit world, bidding her prepare to meet
Owanno. Gladly would Orianna have taken her to her
Philadelphia home, but she answered, “No, I will die and
be buried in the woods;” and the first letter which went
from Mrs. Gorton to her daughter, told that Narretta was
at rest.

On the first anniversary of Orianna's wedding day, Robert,
still madly in love with his handsome wife, wished
to give her a pleasant surprise. Accordingly, besides the
numerous other costly presents which he brought her, he
presented her with a large square box, saying that its
contents were for her.

On opening it, Orianna saw disclosed to view the old
Indian dress, whose loss she years before had wept.
Bright as the sunlight of her happy home were the tears
which glittered in her large black eyes, as, glancing at the
rich heavy silk which now composed her dress, she said,
“Oh, Bob, how could you?” and “Bob” answered,
“How could I what?”