“Yes, and there’s the peddler,” cried the youth, pointing at the picture.

“Now can’t you read it, brother?”

“To be sure I can—­let me read: 

  “’There was a little woman
  As I have heard tell,
  She went to market
  Her eggs for to sell.’

“See! there she goes, with a basket on her arm and a cane in her hand.”

“Yes, and here she is again on this side, fast asleep, and her basket of eggs sitting by her,” said Mary; “now let me read the next: 

  “’She went to market,
  All on a market day,
  And she fell asleep
  On the king’s highway.’”

Now do you read about the peddler, brother.  Mother used to say there was a naughty word in it.”

“I will,” cried the youth, eagerly; but he paused and looked steadfastly at the picture before him.

“Why don’t you read?” asked Mary, endeavouring to confine his thoughts to the childish employment.

“That’s a pretty skin, ain’t it?” said he, pointing to the red shawl painted on the picture.

“Skin!” said Mary; “why, that’s her shawl, brother.”

“I’ll steal one for my squaw,” said he.

“Steal, brother!” said the trembling girl.

“No I won’t, either, sister—­don’t you know mother says we must never steal, nor tell stories, nor say bad words.”

“That’s right, brother.  But you haven’t got an ugly squaw, have you?”

“No indeed, sister, that I haven’t!”

“I thought you wouldn’t have any thing to do with the ugly squaws.”

“That I wouldn’t—­mine’s a pretty one.”

“Oh, heaven!” cried the weeping girl, throwing herself on her brother’s bosom.  He kissed her, and strove to comfort her, and turned to the book and continued to turn over the leaves, while Mary sat by in sadness, but ever and anon replying to his childish questions, and still striving to keep him thus diverted.

“Have you any of the clothes you wore when he was a child?” asked Glenn, addressing Roughgrove.

“Yes,” replied the old man; and seizing upon the thought, he unlocked the trunk that contained them, and put them on.

“Where’s mother?” suddenly asked the young chief.

“Oh, she’s dead!” said Mary.

“Dead?  I know better!” said he, emphatically.

“Indeed she is, brother,” repeated Mary, in tears.

“When did she die?” he continued, in a musing attitude.

“A long time ago—­when you were away,” said she.

“I wasn’t gone away long, was I?” he asked, with much simplicity.

“Oh, very long—­we thought you were dead.”

“He was a very bad Indian to steal me away without asking mother.  But where’s father?  Is he dead, too?” he continued, lifting his eyes and beholding Roughgrove attired in a suit of velvet, and wearing broad silver knee buckles.  “Father! father!” he cried, eagerly clasping the old man in his arms.