“Can you tell me the meaning of the word replenish?” asked Mrs. Gray.
“Why, replenish means—it means—to fill up, I believe; but I don’t see as that has anything to do with fire, after all.”
“Why if we add wood to the fire, and so fill up, or nearly fill up, the fireplace, may it not be called replenishing? You commence the critic early, child,” said the grandmother; but she was far from being angry with little Helen for her remarks; “for it is right and proper for children to inquire, and understand, and learn all they can.”
“But, grandmother,” said George, “I have placed your chair in the warmest corner—the fire is replenished, if Miss Helen will allow me to say so—the hearth is swept—Sally has got her knitting, and is going to sit down with us—and we are all ready, and impatient to hear you.”
“I wish father and mother would be out at a party every night,” said little Helen, as the circle of happy and inquisitive children took their respective seats, and drew around Mrs. Gray; “for you, dear grandmother, always sit with us when they are out; and so do brother, and cousin Ann, and George—and we have such happy times!”
The good lady drew the youngest child to her arms; and, taking the hand of Helen, who had drawn her little chair very close to her grandmother, thus began:
“It was a cold night in December, 1664. The winter wind was howling among the bare forest-trees, and whistling through the heavy and open casements of a few small houses, which stood in the midst of the wilderness, upon a spot then mostly known as the Plantations. It was Sabbath evening. The family belonging to one of the most comfortable looking houses rose up slowly from their usual evening devotions, and drew round a large and blazing fire. The snow and hail beat furiously against the one window of the room, and for some minutes no one spoke: and then they heard a low groan as of one in the agonies of death; and this was followed by a faint screech and a moan of distress.
“‘The Indians! the Indians!’ cried a boy about six years old, and he hid his little head in his mother’s lap.
“‘Nobody shall hurt my boy!’ said the father, patting his head, ‘nobody shall harm thee, child;’ and he rose up, and putting on a broad-brimmed hat turned up at the sides, and taking an iron-headed cane, he began to unfasten the door.
“‘Thou wilt not, Simon Gray,’ said the wife, laying a hand on his arm, ‘thou wilt not open our dwelling to the enemy?’