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As if to mock the anguish of those who were about to lay
their last-born in the earth, the day of Charlie's funeral
was bright and beautiful, as the spring days often are
'neath the warm Kentucky sun. Sweetly the wild flowers
were blooming, and merrily sang the summer birds,
as underneath a maple tree, a tree which stands there yet,
they dug that little grave,— the first grave at Glen's
Creek. Mr. and Mrs. Gorton, Robert, and several others
from Lexington had come to shed the sympathizing tear
with the bereaved ones, but besides the nearest relatives,
there was not so sincere a mourner as she who, apart from
the rest, looked silently on, while into the earth they lowered
the cold, dead Charlie.

Long after the mourners had returned to their desolate
home, she lingered, and on the little mound deplored
in piteous tones her loss, saying, “Oh, woe is me, now
Charlie has crossed the great river, and left Orianna all
alone. Who will love me now, as he did?”

“Many, many,” answered Robert Hunting, who purposely
had returned, and been an eye and ear witness of
Orianna's grief. “Yes, many will love you,” he continued,
seating himself by her, and drawing her closely to
him. Then in the bewildered girl's ear he softly whispered,
“I am not worthy of you, Orianna, but I love you,
and I know, too, on what condition you went to Virginia,
and that had Wahlaga lived, he had sworn to murder me
and marry you.”

For this information he was indebted to Narretta, who,
three days before Wahlaga's illness, overhearing him unfold

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his plan of revenge to Owanno, went to the door of Deacon
Wilder's house, and asking for Robert, led him to the
woods, and there communicated to him what he has just
told Orianna. Robert did not ask Orianna to be his
wife; and perhaps 'twas well that he did not, for the confession
which he did make, added to the excitement of
Wahlaga's and Charlie's death, was too much for a frame
already weakened by the hardships attending that journey
to and from Virginia. The next morning found her
burning with fever and raving with delirium. Owanno,
too, was smitten by the same disease which had consigned
Wahlaga to an early grave.

With anxious heart Narretta hurried from one sufferer
to the other, and the first Indian that looked in at the
door, was urged to go immediately to Deacon Wilder's
and ask some one to come to her. Robert and Marian
instantly obeyed the summons, but human skill could
not save Owanno. In three days after the commencement
of his illness, it was said of him that he had
gone to the fair hunting grounds, while the despairing
howl of the assembled Indians mingled with the mournful
wail of the widowed Narretta and the feeble moans
of Orianna, who incessantly cried, “Bury me under the
maple tree with Charlie, where we sat when he told me,—
where he told me,—” but what he told her she never
said.

At Marian's request, Mrs. Gorton had remained for
some time at Glen's Creek, and one day, not long after
Owanno's burial, she accompanied her daughter to see
Orianna, who, though very weak, was still much better.
They found her asleep, but Narretta arose to receive
them. As Mrs. Gorton's eye fell upon her, an undefined
remembrance of something past and gone rose before her,

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and at last, taking the old Indian woman's hand, she said,
“Narretta, have I never met you before?”

“Plenty times,” was the laconic answer; and after a
moment's pause, Mrs. Gorton, continued: “I remember,
now, eighteen or twenty years ago your wigwam was
near my home in Virginia, and you one morning came to
me, saying you were going away toward the setting sun.”

“White woman remembers wonderful,” said old
Narretta.

“I might not remember so well,” answered Mrs. Gorton,
“but you loved my little Madeline, and about the
time you went away she died.”

Something out of doors attracted Narretta's attention,
and she abruptly turned away. For more than an hour
she was gone, and when she returned she was muttering
to herself, “Yes, I'll do it. I shall do it.”

“Do what?” asked Marian, a little alarmed at Narretta's
excited manner.

But Narretta made her no answer, and going up to
Mrs. Gorton, said rapidly, “Madeline did not die! Narretta
loved her, loved all children, but the Great Spirit
gave her no pappooses of her own, and when she went
away she stole her. She took her, and under the tree she
left a part of her clothing and the smashed carcass of a
young fawn, to make the white woman think the wolves
had eaten her up.”

Here she stopped, and Mrs Gorton, grasping the wasted
hand of Orianna, turned to Narretta and said, “Tell me,
tell me truly, if this be Madeline, my long lost daughter!”

“It is,” answered Narretta. “You know she was
never as fair as the other one,” pointing to Marian, “and
with a wash of roots which I made, she grew still blacker.”

She might have added, also, that constant exposure to
the weather had rendered still darker Orianna's

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complexion, which was naturally a rich brunette. But whatever
else she might have said, was prevented by Mrs. Gorton,
who fell in a death-like swoon at her feet. The shock
was too great, to know that in the gentle Orianna, whose
noble conduct had won the love of so many hearts, she
beheld her long wept-for daughter Madeline.

Upon Marian and Orianna the knowledge that they
were sisters operated differently, according to their different
temperaments. With a cry of joy Marian threw
her arms around Orianna's neck, who, when made to comprehend
the reality, burst into tears, saying, “I thought I
should be white, someting,— I almost knew I should.”

By this time Mrs. Gorton had recovered from her fainting
fit, and clasping her newly found daughter to her bosom,
thanked the God who so unexpectedly had restored
her. The next day the news reached Lexington, bringing
thence Robert, who, in the intensity of his joy, seemed
hardly sane. At a glance he foresaw the future. Orianna,
for so he would always call her, should go to school
for five years, and at the end of that time, images of a
noble, beautiful bride, rose before him, as he hurriedly
traversed the road to Grassy Spring. Their interview we
shall not describe, for no one witnessed it, though Marian
impatiently remarked, “that it took Bob much longer to
tell what he had to say than it did George when he first
came to Lexington.” But then Marian had forgotten, as
who will not forget, or pretend to.

Old Narretta was the only one who seemed not to share
the general joy. She looked upon Orianna as lost to her
forever, and heard the plan of sending her to school with
unfeigned sorrow. Still, she made no objections to whatever
Mr. and Mrs. Gorton chose to do with their child;
and when Orianna was well enough, she gave her consent
that she should be removed to her father's house, where

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every possible indulgence was lavished upon her by her
parents, in order to attach her to them and their mode of
life.

There was now no tie to bind Narretta to Grassy
Spring, and yielding to Orianna's entreaties, she accompanied
her to Lexington, occupying a cabin which Mr.
Gorton built for her on the edge of the wood at the foot
of the garden. Here, many times a day, she saw her child,
who was now Robert's daily pupil. But Robert found it
more difficult to tame his Indian girl than he had at first
anticipated. On one subject, that of dress, she for a time
seemed incorrigible. Occasionally she would assume the
style worn by Marian, but soon casting it off, she would
don her old costume, in which she felt and looked most at
home. But one day the Indian dress mysteriously disappeared.
More than a week Orianna sought for it in vain;
then, with a flood of tears, she yielded the point, and wore
whatever her friends thought proper. Her complexion,
too, with which great pains was taken, gradually grew
fair, until all trace of the walnut stain disappeared.

In October she was placed in the best school of which
Philadelphia could then boast. She was always shy and
timid, but her gentle manners and sweet disposition, to say
nothing of the romance connected with her history, made
her a general favorite with her companions, while the
eagerness with which she sought for knowledge, rendered
her equally a favorite with her teachers. In speaking of
this once, to her mother, who was visiting her, she said,
“When dear Charlie died, I thought there was no one
left to love me, but now it seems that every body loves
me.”

Here we will say a word concerning little Ella, who,
two days after Charlie's funeral, and before Orianna's parentage
was known, had gone home with her father to

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Virginia. Almost constantly she talked of Orianna, and
on learning that she was Marian's sister, her delight was
unbounded. When intelligence was received that she had
been placed at school in Philadelphia, Capt. Wilder, yielding
to Ella's importunities, consented to send her there,
also. Ella had not taken into consideration how greatly
changed her Indian friend must necessarily be, and when,
on reaching Philadelphia, a beautiful young lady entered
the room, neatly and fashionably attired, she could scarcely
believe that it was her companion of the forest.

At Orianna's request they became room-mates, and it
was difficult to tell which was more child-like, the tall
maiden of twenty-one, or the curly-haired girl of nine.

Five years seems a long, long time, but to Orianna it
soon glided away, and then she left school, a much better
scholar than now is often graduated at our most fashionable
seminaries. During her stay in Philadelphia, she had become
greatly attached to the city, and Robert, whose
wealth would admit of his living where he pleased, purchased
a handsome dwelling, fitting it up according
to his own taste, which was rather luxurious.

Six years from the night of Marian's bridal, there was
another wedding at the house of Mr. Gorton, and Orianna,
now a beautiful woman of twenty-six, was the bride.
George and Marian both were present, together with a
lisping Charlie, and a dark-eyed baby “Orianna,” who
made most wondrous efforts to grasp the long diamond
earrings which hung from its auntie's ears, for, Indian-like,
Orianna's passion for jewelry was strong and well developed.

Old Narretta, too, was there, but the lovely young
creature whose head so fondly lay upon her lap, asking her
blessing, was unseen, for Narretta was now stone blind.
Already in her superstitious imagination warnings had

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come from the spirit world, bidding her prepare to meet
Owanno. Gladly would Orianna have taken her to her
Philadelphia home, but she answered, “No, I will die and
be buried in the woods;” and the first letter which went
from Mrs. Gorton to her daughter, told that Narretta was
at rest.

On the first anniversary of Orianna's wedding day, Robert,
still madly in love with his handsome wife, wished
to give her a pleasant surprise. Accordingly, besides the
numerous other costly presents which he brought her, he
presented her with a large square box, saying that its
contents were for her.

On opening it, Orianna saw disclosed to view the old
Indian dress, whose loss she years before had wept.
Bright as the sunlight of her happy home were the tears
which glittered in her large black eyes, as, glancing at the
rich heavy silk which now composed her dress, she said,
“Oh, Bob, how could you?” and “Bob” answered,
“How could I what?”

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