CHAPTER IX.
“To cure heartache is godfather Time’s business, and even he is not invariably successful.”—J. H. Ewing.
When great sorrow comes to us in youth, we feel it must affect and change the whole world; but when we have lived longer in this changeable world, we take it for granted that the whirl of life will go on as usual, only we ourselves drop out for a little while, to fight with our heartache alone, and to conquer it, with God’s help, ere we take up the busy thread of our life again with placid faces, just as if our thread and shuttle were as bright and beautiful as before; and perhaps when all our work looks gray to us, we are weaving the most perfect and beautiful pattern.
Poor little Virginia had never thought of life without her mother, until that conversation which Manteo had interrupted; and then her mind was so full of Iosco’s sickness that she did not think of her mother’s words again until that dreadful moment came when she called and called, and no answer came from those still lips, and she knew that her mother would never hold her in her arms again and kiss her. Everything went on just as before, except that the frost soon changed to a thaw, game became more plentiful, and the suffering less. But not so Virginia’s sorrow: it was so deep and intense for a while, Mistress Wilkins thought it would wear her young life out. Beth was her great comfort through this lonely time: she was one to love, one who really needed her, and the two children truly loved each other. Iosco grew quite strong after a time: he never forgot what Mrs. Dare had done for him, and that it was in saving his life she had hastened her own death. He had always been fond of Virginia, and now his love was mingled with gratitude. There was hardly an hour of the day he did not bring some little offering for “Owaissa,” or tell her stories, or sing songs to her. Time softens the greatest and sharpest sorrow. Let us thank God for it: we should die were it not so. Though Virginia’s heart was nearly broken by her mother’s death, and she wished that she too might die, she did not die, but took her life up bravely after a while; helping those among whom she lived and whom she really loved; gathering flowers and forest treasures in the summer; watching the birds build their nests, and the trees put on their pretty dresses in budding-time; helping in the work, and playing merry games through roasting-ear time; in the fall of the leaf gathering acorns and nuts, and in winter sitting with others around the wigwam fires of cedar-wood, and listening to the stories which the old men told.
So the years passed by, and Owaissa grew from a child to a girl. She was tall and slender; her eyes had a more thoughtful expression than when she was a child, but in other ways she was unchanged. She grew up a perfectly natural girl, full of the poetry and romance of the wild people of the forest. Iosco was still her devoted friend: she looked upon him as a brother. They wandered through the forest together, gathering flowers or acorns or sweet grasses. Sometimes they sat down and rested on the banks of a little stream, and told each other stories. Iosco’s were of the wild Indian lore. He told her of Odjibwa and the Red Swan, of Hiawatha and his Minnehaha. One day they sat on the bank of a little stream which rushed on, making a tiny waterfall just below, which sang to them; so Iosco thought, as he sat there with Owaissa, while overhead the pines waved their lofty branches, and the soft breezes whispered love-songs among them. Wild-flowers and delicate mosses nestled about their feet. All around, laurel blossoms made the forest beautiful and the air fragrant. Birds were flying to and fro, and from a near tree a whip-poor-will was singing to its mate, as if it were telling its love. Iosco was watching Virginia. She looked more like an angel than ever, as she sat with her golden hair falling in masses over her mantle of doe-skins, her slender hands clasped while she listened to the water and the birds.
Her eyes of deepest blue were looking thoughtfully far away. Iosco was fond of Virginia, very fond; but he never thought of her as he did of the Indian maidens. The moments he spent with her were the happiest in his life. When they walked hand in hand, a strange thrill passed through him. He would have died for her willingly, had there been any need. His quick eye saw now that she was sad as she sat listening; and he drew closer to her as he asked, “Where do Owaissa’s thoughts go, that they send such sorrow out of her eyes?”
“Iosco,” she said, “mamma would tell me if she were here, that I ought to be thankful for all God has given me. I often fancy when I sit alone that I can hear her telling me just as she used to, that it is one’s duty not only to be contented, but to be cheerful and happy. I think I am usually, don’t you, Iosco?”