“My poor boy, I will be your father still!” said Roughgrove.

“I know you will,” said the youth, “for you always loved me a great deal, and now that my poor mother’s dead, I’m sure you will love sister and me more than ever.”

“Indeed I will, poor child!  But you must not go back to the naughty savages any more.”

The youth gazed round in silence, and made no reply.  He was evidently awakening to a consciousness of his condition.  A frown of horror darkened his brow as he contemplated the scenes of his wild abode among the Indians; and, when he contrasted his recent mode of life with the Elysian days of his childhood, now fresh in his memory, mingled emotions of regret, fear, and bliss seemed to be contending in his bosom.  A cold dampness settled upon his forehead, his limbs trembled violently, and distressful sighs issued from his heaving breast.  Gradually he sank down on a couch at his side, and closed his eyes.

When some minutes had elapsed, during which a death-like silence was maintained, Mary approached lightly to where her father stood, and inquired if her brother was ill.

“No,” said Roughgrove, in a whisper; “he only sleeps; but it is a very sound slumber.”

“Now let us take off his Indian dress,” said Glenn, “and put on him some of my clothes.”  This was speedily effected, and without awaking the youth, whose senses were benumbed, as if by some powerful opiate.

“Now, Mary,” said Roughgrove, “you must likewise have repose.  You are almost exhausted in body and mind.  Sleep at your brother’s side, if you will, poor girl.”  Mary laid her head on William’s pillow, and was soon in a deep slumber.

For several moments Roughgrove stood lost in thought, gazing alternately at the reposing brother and sister, and Glenn.  He looked also at Sneak and Joe reclining by the fire; both were fast asleep.  He then resumed his seat, and motioned Glenn to do likewise.  He bowed his head a brief length of time in silence, apparently recalling to mind some occurrence of more than ordinary import.

“My young friend,” said he, at length, while he placed his withered hand upon Glenn’s knee, “do you remember that I said there was another secret connected with my family?”

“Distinctly,” replied Glenn; “and I have since felt so much anxiety to be acquainted with it that I have several times been on the eve of asking you to gratify my curiosity; but thinking it might be impertinent, I have forborne.  It has more than once occurred to me that your condition in life must have been different from what it now is.”