“Often, often, sweetheart; nor is it strange. Do not be distressed about Hope; she is as God has given her to us, and in his good time he will clear away those shadows which obscure the brightness of the spirit he has made. Take heart, good dame.”
“She is good and beautiful in spite of all,” rejoined the wife, eying her daughter tenderly. “Shall we ever send her to England?”
“Thy heart yearns for the mother-land, sweetheart?”
“Nay, my dear, good husband, I am more than content. I live not for England, but for thee and our little ones.”
And she leaned both hands clasped upon his shoulder, in a most tender, wifely way.
“If thou art truly content, sweet heart,”—and in saying this he separated the words, as if the better to express the deep sentiment of the love he bore her—“I rejoice, deeply rejoice, for old England is verging upon critical times; and even here, men and women are not quite safe from evil tongues and evil designs!”
He drew her nearer to his breast as he said this, for there were surmises and rumors which he did not name to his lovely wife.
It was evident to both parents that Hope must be left to her own existence, and suffered to enjoy it in her own way; nor was this by any means a limited or degraded one. Her exquisite organization, her perfect health and vivid vitality, were combined with a degree of hardy activity astonishing in one so delicately made.
As a child, the Indians had treated Hope with a deference and tenderness that implied a doubt whether a creature so fair and diminutive could master the rude encounters of life; but as she grew in years, and they saw her small feet so active, and her tiny wrath so ready to wreak itself, their admiration knew no bounds. They delighted to become her instructors in all wildwood games and primitive exploits, and so apt a pupil did they find her that she seemed to their simple observation a prodigy of cleverness rather than one whose mental organization was a subject of doubt or anxiety.
She was expert at the bow and arrow, could swim like a duck, and come out of the water and shake the drops from her long hair without that shrunken, soused-over look so common to women who breast the waters. She was fond of the Indian mode of dress, rarely being willing to conform to the usages prevalent at the time. She was fond of all ornaments that left her movements unimpeded, but refused the use of braid, bodkin, or fillet to curb the redundancy of her locks.