Long had the old square table, with its cloth of snowy
whiteness and its load of eatables, waited the coming of
the bridal party. Many times had Mrs. Wilder stood in
the doorway, and strained her eyes to catch a sight of
the expected company, and more than many times had
old Dillah declared “that the corn cake which riz so nice
would be fell as flat as a pewer platter, if they didn't come
along.”

At length, from the top of a large old maple, in whose
boughs several young Africans were safely ensconced,
there came the joyful cry of, “There, they's comin'.
That's the new miss with the tail of her dress floppin'
round the horses' heels. Jimminy! ain't she a tall one!”
and the youngsters dropped to the ground, and perched
themselves, some on the fence and others on the gate,
with eyes and mouth open to whatever might happen.

In the doorway Mrs. Wilder received the bride, and

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the ready tears gushed forth as for the first time in her
life she folded to her heart a daughter. From his stool
in the corner, Charlie came, and throwing his arms around
Marian's neck, he said, “I know I shall love you, for you
look so much like Orianna!”

Old Dillah, who was pressing forward to offer her congratulations,
was so much surprised that she forgot the
bow and fine speech which, for more than a week, she had
been practicing. Her command of language, however,
did not wholly desert her, for she said, somewhat warmly,
“Clar for 't, Master Charles, young miss won't feel much
sot up to be told she favors a black Injun.”

George, too, was evidently piqued at having his bride
likened to an Indian, but Robert came to Charlie's relief,
saying, “that he had often noticed how wholly unlike an
Indian were the features of Orianna, and that were her
skin a few shades lighter, she would be far more beautiful
than many pale-cheeked belles, with their golden curls
and snowy brows.”

The conversation now turned upon Orianna, and the
strong affection which existed between her and Charlie,
whom Robert teased unmercifully about his “dark-eyed
ladye love.”

Charlie bore it manfully, and ere the evening was spent,
he had promised to take Marian with him when next he
visited his Indian friend. This promise he fulfilled, and
the meeting between the two girls was perfectly simple
and natural. Both were prepared to like each other, and
both looked curiously, one at the other, although Marian
at last became uneasy at the deep, earnest gaze which
those full, black eyes bent upon her, while their owner
occasionally whispered, “Marian, Marian.”

Visions of sorcery and witchcraft passed before her
mind, and still, turn which way she would, she felt that

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the dark girl's eyes were fixed upon her with a strangely
fascinating look. But fear not, young Marian, for though
she strokes your silken curls, and caressingly touches your
soft cheek, the forest maiden will do you no harm. At
length Marian's timidity gave way, and when she arose
to go, she did not refuse her hand to Orianna, who for a
time kept it between her own, as if admiring its whiteness;
then suddenly throwing it from her, she said, “Oh,
why can't Orianna be white and handsome, too!”

“You are handsome,” answered Marian. “Only two
evenings since I heard Robert Hunting say that you were
far more beautiful than half the white girls.”

“Who takes my name in vain?” said a musical voice,
as Robert himself appeared before them, and laid his
hand gently upon Orianna's glossy hair.

If Marian had any doubts of her beauty before, they
were now dispelled by the rich color which mounted to
her olive cheek, and the joy which danced in her large
eye. Yet 'twas not Robert's presence alone which so delighted
Orianna. A ray of hope had entered her heart.
“He thought her beautiful, and perhaps—perhaps—”

Ah, Orianna, think not that Robert Hunting will ever
wed an Indian, for Robert is no Rolfe, and you no Pocahontas!

As if divining and giving words to her thoughts, Robert,
while seating himself between the two girls, and placing
an arm around each, said, playfully, “Hang it all, Orianna,
why were you not white!”

“Don't, Bob,” whispered Marian, who with woman's
quick perception half suspected the nature of Orianna's
feelings for one whose life she twice had saved.

“Don't what, my little Puritan?” asked Robert.

“Don't raise hopes which you know can never be realized,”
answered Marian.

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Robert was silent for a while, and then said, “I reckon
my orthodox cousin is right;” then turning to Orianna,
he asked how her reading progressed.

Charlie answered for her, saying that she could read in
words of one syllable as well as any one, and that she
knew a great deal besides! Robert was about testing her
powers of scholarship, when they were joined by George
Wilder, before whom Orianna absolutely refused to open
her mouth, and in a few moments she arose and left them,
saying, “I shall come again, to-morrow.”

That night, by the wigwam fire Narretta was listening
to her daughter's account of the “white dove,” as she
called Marian. Suddenly a light seemed to dawn on Orianna's
mind, and clasping her hands together, she said,
“Mother, do you remember when I was sick, many, many
moons ago?”

“Yes, child,” answered Narretta, and Orianna continued:
“I slept a long time, I know, but when I woke, I
remember that you, or some one else, said, “She is getting
white; it will never do.” Then I looked at my
hands, and they were almost as fair as Marian's, but you
washed me with something, and I was dark again. Tell
me, mother, was I turning white?”

“Turning white! No, child,” said Narretta; “now
shut up and get to bed.”

Orianna obeyed, but she could not sleep, and about
midnight she stole out at the door, and going to the
spring, for more than half an hour she bathed her face
and hands, hoping to wash off the offensive color. But
all her efforts were vain, and then on the withered leaves
she knelt, and prayed to the white man's God,—the God
who, Charlie had said, could do everything. “Make Orianna
white, make her white,” were the only words she
uttered, but around her heart there gathered confidence

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that her prayer would be answered, and impatiently she
waited for the morrow's light.

“Mother, am I white?” aroused Narretta from her
slumbers, just as the first sunlight fell across the floor.

“White! No; blacker than ever,” was the gruff answer,
and Orianna's faith in “Charlie's God” was shaken.