“They say an Indian never will tell a lie to a friend,” said Teddy, dropping his voice as if speaking to himself.  “Do you ever lie, Mr. What’s-your-name?”

“No,” replied the savage, thereby uttering an unmitigated falsehood.

“You give me your promise, then, that ye’ll niver furnish me anither drap?”

“Yis.”

“Give me yer hand.”

The two shook hands, Teddy’s face, despite its vacant expression, lighting up for the time with a look of delight.

“Now I’ll fish,” said Teddy.  “P’raps it is best that ye l’ave these parts; not that I intertains inmity or bad-will toward you, but thin ye know——­hello! yees are gone already, bees you?”

The Indian had departed, and Teddy turned his attention toward securing the bait.  In a few moments he had cast the line out in the stream and was sound asleep, in which condition he remained until night set in.

CHAPTER IV.

AN OMINOUS RENCOUNTER.

             “I will work him
  To an exploit now rich in my device,
  Under the which he shall not choose but fall.”

The sun passed the meridian, on that summer day in 1821 and Harvey Richter, the young missionary, came to the door of his cabin, intending to set forth upon his walk to the Indian village.  It was rather early; the day was pleasant and as his wife followed him, he lingered awhile upon the steps, loth to leave a scene of such holy joy.

The year which the two had spent in that wilderness had been one of almost unalloyed happiness.  The savages, among whom they had come to labor, had received them more kindly than they deemed it right to anticipate, and had certified their esteem for them in numberless ways.  The missionary felt that a blessing was upon his labor.

An infant had been given them, and the little fellow brought nothing but gladness and sunlight into the household.  Ah! none but a father can tell how precious the blue-eyed image of his mother was to Harvey Richter; none but a mother can realize the yearning affection with which she bent over the sleeping cherub; and but few can enter into the rollicking pride of Teddy over the little stranger.  At times, his manifestations were fairly uproarious, and it became necessary to check them, or to send him further into the woods to relieve himself of his exuberant delight.

Harvey lingered upon the threshold, gazing dreamily away at the mildly-flowing river, or at the woods, through which for a considerable distance, he could trace the winding path which his own feet had worn.  Cora, his wife, stood beside him, looking smilingly down in his face, while her left hand toyed with a stray ringlet that would protrude itself from beneath her husband’s cap.

“Cora, are you sorry that we came into this wild country?”

The smile on her face grew more radiant, as she shook her head without speaking.  She was in that pleasant, dreamy state, in which it seems an effort to speak—­so much so that she avoided it until compelled to do so by some direct question.