“My!  My!  Won’t Edwards and Young beg me to keep them here now!” he exclaimed, his pleased eyes resting on Nell’s piquant beauty and Kate’s noble proportions and rich coloring.  “Come; I will show you over the Village of Peace.”

“Are all these Indians Christians?” asked Jim.

“No, indeed.  These Indians you see here, and out yonder under the shade, though they are friendly, are not Christians.  Our converts employ themselves in the fields or shops.  Come; take a peep in here.  This is where we preach in the evenings and during inclement weather.  On pleasant days we use the maple grove yonder.”

Jim and the others looked in at the door of the large log structure.  They saw an immense room, the floor covered with benches, and a raised platform at one end.  A few windows let in the light.  Spacious and barn-like was this apartment; but undoubtedly, seen through the beaming eyes of the missionary, it was a grand amphitheater for worship.  The hard-packed clay floor was velvet carpet; the rude seats soft as eiderdown; the platform with its white-oak cross, an altar of marble and gold.

“This is one of our shops,” said Mr. Zeisberger, leading them to a cabin.  “Here we make brooms, harness for the horses, farming implements—­everything useful that we can.  We have a forge here.  Behold an Indian blacksmith!”

The interior of the large cabin presented a scene of bustling activity.  Twenty or more Indians bent their backs in earnest employment.  In one corner a savage stood holding a piece of red-hot iron on an anvil, while a brawny brave wielded a sledge-hammer.  The sparks flew; the anvil rang.  In another corner a circle of braves sat around a pile of dried grass and flags.  They were twisting and fashioning these materials into baskets.  At a bench three Indian carpenters were pounding and sawing.  Young braves ran back and forth, carrying pails, rough-hewn boards and blocks of wood.

Instantly struck by two things, Jim voiced his curiosity: 

“Why do these Indians all wear long hair, smooth and shiny, without adornment?”

“They are Christians.  They wear neither headdress, war-bonnet, nor scalp-lock,” replied Mr. Zeisberger, with unconscious pride.

“I did not expect to see a blacksmith’s anvil out here in the wilderness.  Where did you procure these tools?”

“We have been years getting them here.  Some came by way of the Ohio River; others overland from Detroit.  That anvil has a history.  It was lost once, and lay for years in the woods, until some Indians found it again.  It is called the Ringing Stone, and Indians come from miles around to see and hear it.”

The missionary pointed out wide fields of corn, now growing yellow, and hillsides doted with browsing cattle, droves of sturdy-limbed horses, and pens of fat, grunting pigs—­all of which attested to the growing prosperity of the Village of Peace.

On the way back to the cabin, while the others listened to and questioned Mr. Zeisberger, Jim was silent and thoughtful, for his thoughts reverted to his brother.