“Indeed, indeed they will,” said Minny in tears.

A Methodist clergyman of some kind, who preached in Maysville at that time, hearing what had happened, came in to offer his services and to pray with the dying man.  The Panther thanked him courteously, but he clung to the simple creed of his fathers and his belief that “Ingin religion was good for Ingin;” and Mr. Lawrence had the sense and feeling not to disturb him by argument.

“Want your Charley to have my rifle,” he said to me.  “Nobody left of our people but my cousin’s son, and he most a mizzable Ingin.  You ’member that, please,” he said to Mr. Lawrence, who sat quietly at the head of the sofa.  “Do you think,” he asked wistfully of the clergyman, “that I ever see these two again where I go?” The minister—­Heaven bless him!—­answered stoutly that he had not a doubt of it.  “All right, then,” said the Panther, quietly.  “Now, mamma, you see red fox know, after all.”

Minny brought her baby for him to kiss.  Little Carry’s dark eyes were full of tears, for, like most babies, she felt the influence of sorrow she could not understand.  She did not scream, as another child would, but hid her face on her mother’s bosom and sobbed quietly, like a grown-up woman.  My two little boys, understanding all at once that their old friend was going away, burst out crying.

“Hush! hush!” he said, gently.  “You be good boys to your mother.  Say ‘good-bye.’”

We kissed him, keeping back the lamentations which we knew would trouble him.

“Good-bye,” he said, softly, and then he spoke some few words in his own tongue, as Minny told me afterward, about going to his lost children.  Then a smile came over his face, a look of sweet relief and comfort softened the stern features, the hand that had held mine so close slowly relaxed; and with a sigh he was gone.

The old minister gently closed his eyes.  “My dear,” said Mr. Lawrence to Minny, who was in an agony of grief, “God knows, but it was His Son who said, ’Greater love hath no man than this—­that a man lay down his life for his friends!’”

When we buried the old chief we wrote those words on the stone we placed over his grave.

Since then the New Year’s Eve brings back to me very vividly the memory of the augury that so strangely accomplished its own fulfillment.

CLARA F. GUERNSEY.

Louie.

The great river was flowing peacefully down to the sea, opening its blue tides at the silver fretting of the bar into a shallow expanse some miles in width, a part of which on either side overlay stretches where the submerged eel-grass lent a tint of chrysoprase to the sheathing flow, and into which one gazed, half expecting to see so ideal a depth peopled by something other than the long ribbons of the weed streaming out on the slow current—­the only cool sight, albeit, beneath the withering heat of the day across all that shining extent.  Far down the shores,