“Thank you, Nick,” cried Mrs. Willoughby.  “I knew you were my friend, and have not forgotten the gold-thread.”

“He very good,” answered the Indian, with an important look.  “Pappoose get well like not’ing.  He a’most die, to-day; to-morrow he run about and play.  Nick do him, too; cure him wid gold-thread.”

“Oh! you are, or were quite a physician at one time, Nick.  I remember when you had the smallpox, yourself.”

The Indian turned, with the quickness of lightning, to Mrs. Willoughby, whom he startled with his energy, as he demanded—­

“You remember dat, Mrs. cap’in!  Who gib him—­who cure him—­um?”

“Upon my word, Nick, you almost frighten me.  I fear I gave you the disease, but it was for your own good it was done.  You were inoculated by myself, when the soldiers were dying around us, because they had never had that care taken of them.  All I inoculated lived; yourself among the number.”

The startling expression passed away from the fierce countenance of the savage, leaving in its place another so kind and amicable as to prove he not only was aware of the benefit he had received, but that he was deeply grateful for it.  He drew near to Mrs. Willoughby, took her still white and soft hand in his own sinewy and dark fingers, then dropped the blanket that he had thrown carelessly across his body, from a shoulder, and laid it on a mark left by the disease, by way of pointing to her good work.  He smiled, as this was done.

“Ole mark,” he said, nodding his head—­“sign we good friend—­he nebber go away while Nick live.”

This touched the captain’s heart, and he tossed a dollar towards the Indian, who suffered it, however, to lie at his feet unnoticed.  Turning to the stockade, he pointed significantly at the open gateways.

“Great danger go t’rough little ’ole,” he said, sententiously, walking away as he concluded.  “Why you leave big ’ole open?”

“We must get those gates hung next week,” said the captain, positively; “and yet it is almost absurd to apprehend anything serious in this remote settlement, and that at so early a period in the war.”

Nothing further passed on the lawn worthy to be recorded.  The sun set, and the family withdrew into the house, as usual, to trust to the overseeing care of Divine Providence, throughout a night passed in a wilderness.  By common consent, the discourse turned upon things noway connected with the civil war, or its expected results, until the party was about to separate for the night, when the major found himself alone with his sisters, in his own little parlour, dressing-room, or study, whatever the room adjoining his chamber could properly be called.

“You will not leave us soon, Robert,” said Beulah, taking her brother’s hand, with confiding affection, “I hardly think my father young and active enough, or rather alarmed enough, to live in times like these!”