She sighs, and does not answer. He may; she prays that he will. But she! The breeze sighs with her, as she thinks that she will never again look upon the faces of her friends. Well! perhaps it is better so. She desires no happier lot than to die in Joshua's arms, with his eyes looking kindly upon her. She has been growing weaker and weaker every day; she does not complain, but he often regards her with apprehensive looks, and prays that she may not be taken from him. They live together as brother and sister; the love he bears for her is as pure as the love he bears for his mother. He speaks to her often of Dan, and she listens with sweet patience. But he does not understand that her love for him is part of her very nature, and that it cannot be transferred--that it cannot change. He does not understand it, does not know it; he deludes himself with the hope that, if it should mercifully chance that they should reach home, the dear hope of Dan's life may be realized, and that Minnie's love and Dan's belief in her purity may brighten the days of his friend. She knows that Joshua entertains this hope, and does not pain him by telling him how false it is.
So the days pass, and the seasons change. In accordance with Minnie's wish, the tribe moves farther and farther southward, and is rewarded by finding plenty of game in the woods, and fish in the rivers and pools. Summer dies, and the beautiful autumn brings strength to Minnie; but the succeeding winter strikes her down. Her savage friends and worshippers are grieved to the heart at her weakness, and she, true to her purpose and to Joshua, makes them understand that health and strength for her lie southward, and urges them on towards the settled districts.
"If we are saved," says Joshua, "I shall owe all my happiness to you, Minnie. Once you gave me life; now perhaps you will give me what is better than life."
A look of content rests in her eyes as he says this, and she muses upon it for days afterwards, murmuring the words to herself before she falls asleep. Speaking to her of her father at one time, he is surprised to hear her say, "Father is dead, Joshua."
"How do you know?" he asks, startled.
"I feel it--here," pressing her hand to her heart; "I have dreamt that I saw him and mother together. Some things come to us intuitively; we do not need to be told."
"Do you know any thing else about those at home?" he asks, half awed by her solemn tone.
"No; but one other thing I know that I ought not to keep from you."
He waits in silence for what is to come, dreading to speak. She takes his hand; hers is hot with fever.
"Do not think me unkind," she says, "but for many weeks I have felt impelled to tell you, and now that the time is drawing near, I must no longer keep it from you. Can you guess what it is, my dear?"