"When first I joined the people of the Stone," replied the missionary, "I found her there a young child of three years old. Her mother was just dead, and although her father bore his grief with the stern, gloomy stoicism of his nation, and neither suffered tear to fall nor sigh to escape his lips, I could see plainly enough that he was struck with grief such as the Indian seldom feels and never shows. He received me most kindly, and made my efforts with his people easy; and though I know not to this hour whether with himself I have been successful in communicating blessed light, he gave his daughter altogether up to my charge, and with her I have not failed. I fear in him the savage is too deeply rooted to be ever wrung forth, but her I have made one of Christ's flock indeed."
It seemed as if by a sort of instinct that Otaitsa discovered that she was the subject of conversation between her two friends. Twice she looked around at them from the other side of the room, and then she glided across and seated herself beside Edith. For a moment she sat in silence there, and then leaning her head gracefully on her beautiful companion's shoulder, she said in a low whisper: "Do not close thine eyes this night, my sister, till thou seest me;" and then starting up, she mingled with the little crowd again.
It was still early in the night when Edith retired to the chamber assigned for her; for even in the most fashionable society of those times, people had not learned to drive the day into the night, and make morning and evening meet. Her room was a large and handsome one, and though plainly, it was sufficiently furnished. No forest, as at her dwelling, interrupted the beams of the rising moon, and she sat and contemplated the ascent of the queen of night as she soared grandly over the distant trees. The conduct of Otaitsa during that night had puzzled her, and the few whispered words had excited her curiosity, for it must not be forgotten that Edith was altogether unacquainted with the fact of one of the Oneidas having been slain by the hands of Captain Brooks within little more than two miles of her own abode. She proceeded to make her toilet for the night, however, and was almost undressed when she heard the door of her room open quietly, and Otaitsa stole in and cast her arms around her.
"Ah, my sister," she said, "I have longed to talk with you;" and seating herself by her side, she leaned her head again upon Edith's shoulder, but remained silent for several minutes. The fair English girl knew that it was better to let her take her own time and her own way to speak whatever she had to say, but Otaitsa remained so long without uttering a word that an undefinable feeling of alarm spread over her young companion. She felt her bosom heave as if with struggling sighs, she even felt some warm drops like tears fall upon her shoulder, and yet Otaitsa remained without speaking, till at length Edith said, in a gentle and encouraging tone: "What is it, my sister? There can surely be nothing you should be afraid to utter to my ear."
"Not afraid," answered Otaitsa, and then she relapsed into silence again.
"But why do you weep, my sweet Blossom?" said Edith, after pausing for a moment or two to give her time to recover her composure.
"Because one of your people has killed one of my people," answered the Indian girl, sorrowfully. "Is not that enough to make me weep?"
"Indeed," exclaimed Edith, "I am much grieved to hear it, Blossom; but when did this happen, and how?"
"It happened but yesterday," replied the girl, "and but a little toward the morning from your own house, my sister. It was a sad day! It was a sad day!"
"But I trust it was none near and dear to the Blossom or to the Black Eagle," said Edith, putting her arms around her and trying to soothe her.