Verty approached her with a bright smile, and taking her hand in his own, placed it upon his head; then saying something in the Delaware tongue, he entered the hut.

Within, the mountain dwelling was as wild as without.  From the brown beams overhead were suspended strings of onions, tin vessels, bridles, dried venison, and a thousand other things, mingled in inextricable confusion.  In the wide fire-place, which was supplied with stones for and-irons, a portion of the lately slaughtered deer was broiling on an impromptu and primitive species of gridiron, which would have disgusted Soyer and astonished Vatel.  This had caused the smoke; and as Verty entered, the old woman had been turning the slices.  Longears and Wolf were already stretched before the fire, their eyes fixed upon the venison with admiring attention and profound seriousness.

In ten minutes the venison was done, and Verty and his mother ate in silence—­Verty not forgetting his dogs, who growled and contended for the pieces, and then slept upon the rude pine floor.

The boy then went to some shelves in the corner, just by the narrow flight of steps which led to the old woman’s room above, and taking down a long Indian pipe, filled it with tobacco, and lit it.  This having been accomplished, he took his seat on a sort of wicker-work bench, just outside of the door, and began to smoke with all the gravity and seriousness of a Sachem of the Delawares.

In a moment he felt the hand of the old woman on his shoulder.

“Verty has been asleep and dreamed something,” she said, calmly, in the Delaware tongue.

“No, ma mere, Verty has been wide awake,” said the boy, in the same language.

“Then the winds have been talking to him.”

“Hum,” said Verty.

“Something is on my son’s mind, and he has tied his heart up—­mal!”

“No, no,” said Verty, “I assure you, ma mere, I’m quite happy.”

And having made this declaration, Verty stopped smoking and sighed.

The old woman heard this sigh, slight as it was, with the quick ear of the Indian, and was evidently troubled by it.

“Has Verty seen the dove?” she said.

The young man nodded with a smile.

“Did they laugh?”

“They laughed.”

“Did he come away singing?”

Verty hesitated, then said, with an overshadowed brow—­

“No, no, ma mere—­I really believe he did not.”

The old woman pressed his hand between her own.

“Speak,” she said, “the dove is not sick?”

Verty sighed.

“No; but she is going away,” he said, “and Miss Lavinia would not tell me where.  What a hawk she is—­oh! she shall not harm my dove!”

And Verty betook himself to gazing with shadowy eyes upon the sky.  The old Indian was silent for some time.  Then she said—­

“Trust in the Good Spirit, my son.  We are not enough for ourselves.  We think we are strong and mighty, and can do everything; but a wind blows us away.  Listen, there is the wind in the pines, and look how it is scattering the leaves.  Men are like leaves—­the breath of the Great Spirit is the wind which scatters them.”