The Indian mother gazed on their pallid faces, and wept; she loved them, and could not bear to part with them; but she saw they would die, and calling her husband, she bade him convey them to the home of their father.  Many were the tears she shed at parting with them; and when they disappeared among the thick trees, she threw herself, in an agony of grief, upon the mats within the wigwam.

It was Sabbath noon when the children arrived in sight of their father’s house; here the Indian left them, and plunged again into the depths of the forest.  They could gain no admittance into the house, and they hastened to the meeting-house, where they hoped to find their parents.  They reached the church; the congregation was singing; silently, and unobserved, they entered, and seated themselves at the remotest part of the building.  The singing ceased; there was a momentary pause, and their father rose before them.  Oh, how he was changed!  Pale, very pale, thin and sad was his dear face; and Emma’s and Anna’s hearts smote them, as being the cause of this change.  They leaned forward to catch a glimpse of their mother, but in her accustomed seat sat a lady dressed in black, and this, they thought, could not be her; they little supposed that their parents mourned for them as for the dead, believing they should see them no more.

Mr. Wilson took his text from Psalms:  “It is good for me that I have been afflicted.”  With a tremulous voice, he spoke of their recent afflictions; of the sudden invasion of the colony, the burning of their dwellings, the wounding of some of their number, and then his tones became more deeply tremulous, for he spoke of his children.  The sobs of his sympathizing people filled the house, and the anguish of the father’s feelings became so intense, that he bowed his head upon the Bible and wept aloud.  The hearts of the children palpitated with emotion; their sobs arose above all others; and, taking each other by the hand, the wan, emaciated, badly-dressed little girls hastened to the pulpit, where stood their father, with his face bowed upon the leaves of the Holy Book, and laying their hand upon his passive arm, they sobbed forth, “Father!  Father!” He raised his head, gazed eagerly and wildly upon the children, and comprehending at once the whole scene, the revulsion of feeling that came over him was so great,—­the sorrow for the dead being instantly changed into joy for the living,—­that he staggered backwards, and would have fallen but for the timely support of a chair.

The whole house was in instant confusion; in a moment they were clasped in their mother’s arms, and kisses and tears and blessings were mingled together upon their white, thin cheeks.  “Let us thank God for the return of our children,” said the pastor; and all kneeling reverently, he thanked our merciful heavenly Father, in the warm and glowing language of a deeply grateful heart, for restoring to his arms those whom he had wept as lost to him forever.