And their pitying God heard their prayer, and brought them in safety to their childhood's home, and prepared for them pardon and peace of conscience. For Ellen Buckingham's father had been brought to the brink of the grave by sudden illness, and the stern old man wept like a child, when the village pastor, a faithful minister of the Gospel, told him that the most faultless creed would not avail him if he cherished a hardened, unforgiving spirit, and exhorted him to pardon and bless his exiled son and daughter. His iron heart was subdued within him, and when his wife, whose gentler nature had long since pined for a reconciliation, joined her entreaties to the commands of religion, then, like the sudden breaking up of the ice upon a noble river, his feelings gushed forth beyond control; all coldness and hardness vanished. At this moment it was that James and Ellen Buckingham arrived: they had come in the spirit of the Prodigal Son, not thinking themselves worthy to be called the children of those they had offended; and they were greeted with the same tenderness and overflowing affection described in the parable—their confessions of guilt were stopped by kisses and embraces, and soon they were weeping and recounting their loss, with arms encircling their long-estranged parents.
When the doctor paid his next visit, he said that a greater physician than he had interfered, and had administered a new medicine, not very bitter to take, which threw all his drugs into the shade: it was called heart's ease, and nothing more was wanting to his patient's recovery, than very tender nursing, and daily applications of the same dose. And tender nursing indeed did he receive from his daughter Ellen, and proudly did he lean on the strong arm of his son, when sufficiently convalescent to venture abroad: it seemed as if the affection, restrained within their bosoms for so long a time, now gushed forth more fully and freely than if there had never been a coldness. And thus did sorrow on one side, and sickness on the other, guided by an overruling Providence, join together long severed hearts, purify affections too much fixed upon the earth, and lead all to look upward to Him who ruleth in the affairs of mankind. Truly, "he doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men."
At the earnest request of Ellen's parents, her husband agreed to continue with them, acting in all respects as their son, and taking off from them the burdens of life: and their latter years were made happy by religion and filial piety. After their death, the Buckinghams removed once more to their farm upon the Susquehanna, and rebuilt their cottage, in all respects as it was before its destruction. Soon again did the vines clamber up the pillars, and hang in beautiful festoons from the roof; but where was she, the beloved one, who had so wound herself round their feelings, that death itself could not unclasp the tendrils? Joy had vanished with her, and no portion remained for them in this life but peace, which will ever follow the diligent discharge of duty: the hope of happiness they transferred to that better world, where little Emily awaited to welcome them.
What, meantime, had been her fate? On that eventful evening she lay upon her little crib, in a darkened corner of the room, buried in the sweet slumber of childhood and innocence. The savage yells did not disturb her, she peacefully slept on; angels must have guarded her bed when a fierce Indian, with bloody tomahawk in hand, rushed into the room, but saw her not in her little nest, and returned to his comrades, reporting that all the rest of the inhabitants had fled. Determined to do all the mischief in their power, they set fire to the house and barns, and then pushed off into the woods, to seek new victims in the unoffending Moravian settlement of Guadenhutten. Little Emily was first awakened by a suffocating heat and smoke, and by the crackling of the flames: she screamed aloud to her father for help, and tried to approach the stairs, but the blinding smoke and the quickly spreading fire drove her back. Just then, a tall and noble form, arrayed in Indian garb, forced a passage through the raging flames and among the falling rafters, and guided by her cries, sought her chamber, caught her in his arms, and rushed down to the outer air. Not without peril to both: the arm which encircled her was burnt so as to bear the scar ever after, but still it sustained its precious burden, and the little girl was unharmed, save that some of her long golden tresses, hanging loosely behind her, were severed from her head by the fire: hence the lock of hair that remained unconsumed, convincing her friends of her death.
And who was her brave preserver? Towandahoc, Great Black Eagle, the friend of the pale faces! The secret plans of his tribe had been kept from his ears, from the fear that he might betray them to the unsuspecting whites; and it was not until after the expedition had departed for the banks of the Susquehanna, that he learned their hostile intentions towards his friends. He lost no time, but followed rapidly in their steps, hoping by his representations to induce his people to give up their murderous purpose, or perhaps, by a short but difficult route through the mountains, to reach the cottage of Hopedale before them. But hate is as swift as love in its flight, and as he approached the spot, and saw the flames mounting up to the sky, he thought himself too late, and the work of murder and of destruction complete. Just then he heard little Emily's cries, and rushed in at the peril of his life, to save the child.
Supposing her parents to be dead, he resolved to take the helpless little one to his wigwam, and to adopt her as his own. His home was at the distance of several days' journey from the Susquehanna, in a retired valley of the Alleghany mountains, and thither, through a dense forest, he bent his steps. The greater part of the way he carried the child, her white arm wound round his dusky neck, her fair head lying upon his shoulder; he dried her tears, he picked berries in the wood to refresh her, and strove to comfort her little heart, which was very heavy with sorrow. At last they arrived at his wigwam; his wife Ponawtan, or Wild Rose, ran out to meet her husband, and great was her wonder at the sight of his beautiful burden. He said to her:—
"Ponawtan, I have brought you home a child, as the Great Spirit has taken away our own, and sent them to the good hunting grounds, where forever they hunt the deer. Take good care of the child, for she is like a white water-lily, encircled by troubled waters: in our wigwam may she find rest and peace."
Ponawtan, with a woman's tenderness, took into her arms the trembling, weeping child, who, with the quick instinct of childhood, soon learned that she was a friend. The Indian woman understood not even the few words of English by which Towandahoc made his kind intentions intelligible, but the language of the heart is a universal one, and in that she was a proficient. Well was it for little Emily—or Orikama, White Water-Lily, as she was henceforth called, that she had fallen into such good hands. Ponawtan was a kind, affectionate being, who had deeply mourned the loneliness of her cabin; and now that a child was given her, that a little motherless, homeless outcast was thrown upon her love, she was happy, and her sweet voice was again heard singing snatches of wild Indian melodies at the door of her hut, and about her work.
For some weeks Orikama drooped her head, and her pale cheek looked indeed like the flower whose name had been given her; and Ponawtan grieved when she beheld her languid step, and the sad expression in her large speaking eyes, or when she found her weeping in a corner of the hut. But childhood is happily elastic in its feelings, and again the merry glance came back to her eye, and the little feet danced upon the green grass, and the soft baby voice caught up the Indian words she heard, and learned to call her kind protectors by the holy name of father and mother.
And was the memory of the past blotted out from her mind? Not so—indelibly painted there, was the image of a whitewashed cottage, overgrown with vines, near which a noble river rolled, seen through an opening of the trees; and of a kind father, who wore no plumes in his hair, who bore no bow and arrows, whom she had run to greet, and on whose knee she daily sat, listening to beautiful tales. And of a sweet, pretty mother, in whose face she loved to look, who taught her to say a prayer, kneeling with clasped hands; especially did she think of her as she appeared on that last evening, when she kissed her good-night, and sang her to sleep with a gentle lullaby. And never did she forget to kneel down, before she lay upon her bed of sweet grass, and with folded hands and reverent look to recite her evening prayer. What though the full meaning of the words did not enter into her mind—with childlike piety she looked upward to her Maker, and impressions of purity and goodness were made upon her heart. In the beautiful language of Keble,