Was it a tear that glittered in that warlike stranger’s eye, as a ray from the western sun fell on his face through the thick overhanging foliage?  And did those manly limbs tremble as he clasped his hands over his face, and sank on the rustic seat beneath the tulip-tree?

‘I cannot enter the house!’ he exclaimed, in a low voice.  ’I cannot seek those loved ones there where once we dwelt in happiness together; and where, perhaps, none now remain to welcome the wanderer home!  O, that some one would appear who might tell me of their fate!’

Henrich spoke to himself in his native tongue.  He could not speak a strange language in that old familiar spot; and his voice attracted the notice of the little girl, who was now slowly moving towards him, her hands filled with the spoils of the flower-beds.  She stopped, and gazed at the stranger, and then uttered a faint cry of fear that at once roused Henrich from his reverie.  His eyes fell on the lovely child, and instantly his memory recalled the features and expression of his brother Ludovico, to whom the little Edith bore a strong resemblance.

With an irresistible impulse he sprang forward, and caught the little girl in his arms, and sought, by caresses, to soothe her fears, and hush her cries of terror.  But those cries had caught the watchful ear of Janet; and, with all the speed that she could use, she came running from the house, merely anticipating that her charge had fallen down, or was alarmed at finding herself alone.

What was, then, her terror and amazement at seeing her in the arms of an Indian!  One instant she stood rivetted to the spot, not knowing how to act.  The next she turned, and again hurried in to the house, from whence she escaped by a back door, and sped breathlessly towards ’the Burying Hill.’  She knew that the service was over—­for the last strains of the parting hymn had been borne down by the evening breeze as she left the house—­and therefore she would find help and succor from the returning congregation.  That deep, melodious sound had been heard by Henrich also; and it had struck a chord in his heart that vibrated almost to agony.  The stillness and abstraction of his look, as he listened to the dying cadence, silenced the cries of the little child.  She gazed into his upturned eyes; and, possibly, she felt that those eyes had an expression that was neither strange nor terrible—­for now she suffered the stranger to seat himself again on the bench beneath the tulip tree, and place her gently on his knee.

Such was the picture that met the eyes of Edith, and her husband, and parents, as they rushed into the garden, followed by the trembling and exhausted Janet.

‘My child! my Edith!’ shrieked the young mother and sprang towards the tree.  That name told a long history to the wanderer which his heart had already guessed.  The Indian warrior rose, but he did not fly.  No! he only met the terrified mother; and as he placed her child in her trembling arms, he folded them both in his own.