A soft voice answered from the tent of Nattee, and soon afterwards came out a little girl, of about eleven years old.  The appearance of this child was a new source of interest.  She was a little fairy figure, with a skin as white as the driven snow—­light auburn hair, and large blue eyes; her dress was scanty, and showed a large portion of her taper legs.  She hastened to Nattee, and folding her arms across her breast, stood still, saying meekly, “I am here.”

“Know these as friends, Fleta.  Send that lazy Num (this was Philotas, the fool), for more wood, and see that Jumbo tends the fire.”

Nattee smiled, and left us.  I observed she went to where forty or fifty of the tribe were assembled, in earnest discourse.  She took her seat with them, and marked deference was paid to her.  In the meantime Jumbo had blown up a brisk fire; we were employed by Fleta in shredding vegetables, which she threw into the boiling kettle.  Num appeared with more fuel, and at last there was nothing more to do.  Fleta sat down by us, and parting her long hair, which had fallen over her eyes, looked us both in the face.

“Who gave you that name, Fleta?” inquired I.

“They gave it me,” replied she.

“And who are they?”

“Nattee, and Melchior, her husband.”

“But you are not their daughter?”

“No, I am not—­that is, I believe not.”

The little girl stopped short, as if assured that she had said too much, cast her eyes down on the ground, and folded her arms, so that her hands rested on each opposite shoulder.

Timothy whispered to me, “She must have been stolen, depend upon it.”

“Silence,” said I.

The little girl overheard him, and looking at him, put her finger across her mouth, looking to where Num and Jumbo were sitting.  I felt an interest for this child before I had been an hour in her company; she was so graceful, so feminine, so mournful in the expression of her countenance.  That she was under restraint was evident; but still she did not appear to be actuated by fear.  Nattee was very kind to her, and the child did not seem to be more reserved towards her than to others; her mournful pensive look, was perhaps inherent to her nature.  It was not until long after our first acquaintance that I ever saw a smile upon her features.  Shortly after this little conversation Nattee returned, walking with all the grace and dignity of a queen.  Her husband, or Melchior, as I shall in future call him, soon joined us, and we sat down to our repast, which was excellent.  It was composed of almost every thing; sometimes I found myself busy with the wing of a fowl, at another the leg of a rabbit—­then a piece of mutton, or other flesh and fowl, which I could hardly distinguish.  To these were added every sort of vegetable, among which potatoes predominated, forming a sort of stew, which an epicure might have praised.  I had a long conversation with Melchior in the evening, and, not to weary the reader, I shall now proceed to state all that I then and subsequently gathered from him and others, relative to the parties with whom we were associating.