A BLOW IN THE DARK.
"Well, Burr, any change to-day?"
"Yes—a great one."
"For better or worse?"
"The road will be open for us to-morrow. She's dying."
"Dying! is it possible? And the poor creature seemed so much better this morning."
"Listen—there!"
A quavering, pitiful wail came to their ears, proceeding from a small white tent, half-hidden beneath the low-hanging boughs of the grove. That cry told the two men, plainer than spoken words, the sad truth. It told of a household broken and dismembered; of a bereaved husband and daughter, of a dearly-beloved wife and mother who had journeyed thus far from the home of her childhood, only to find a lone grave upon the prairie, or beside the rock-bound rivulet that wound its noisy way adown the valley.
The two young men stood in silence, gazing toward the tent of mourning. They did not speak, though not a little agitated. And yet one of the two caught himself secretly exulting in the thought that now the greatest difficulty was removed from the path he had laid out to follow.
The little valley was studded here and there with diminutive tents, while white-tilted wagons stood grouped together in an oblong circle. These alone would have proclaimed the truth: a company of emigrants tenanted the valley.