“Ye’ve seen thet big curly birch over thar—­thet ’un as bends kind of sorrowful like.  Wal, it used to stand straight an’ proud.  I’ve knowed thet tree all the years I’ve navigated this river, an’ it seems natural like to me thet it now droops dyin’, fer it shades the grave of as young, an’ sweet, an’ purty a lass as yerself, Miss Nell.  Rivermen called this island George’s Island, ’cause Washington onct camped here; but of late years the name’s got changed, an’ the men say suthin’ like this:  ‘We’ll try an’ make Milly’s birch afore sundown,’ jest as Bill and me hev done to-day.  Some years agone I was comin’ up from Fort Henry, an’ had on board my slow old scow a lass named Milly—­we never learned her other name.  She come to me at the fort, an’ tells as how her folks hed been killed by Injuns, an’ she wanted to git back to Pitt to meet her sweetheart.  I was ag’in her comin’ all along, an’ fust off I said ‘No.’  But when I seen tears in her blue eyes, an’ she puts her little hand on mine, I jest wilted, an’ says to Jim Blair, ‘She goes.’  Wal, jest as might hev been expected—­an’ fact is I looked fer it—­we wus tackled by redskins.  Somehow, Jim Girty got wind of us hevin’ a lass aboard, an’ he ketched up with us jest below here.  It’s a bad place, called Shawnee Rock, an’ I’ll show it to ye termorrer.  The renegade, with his red devils, attacked us thar, an’ we had a time gittin’ away.  Milly wus shot.  She lived fer awhile, a couple of days, an’ all the time wus so patient, an’ sweet, an’ brave with thet renegade’s bullet in her—­fer he shot her when he seen he couldn’t capture her—­thet thar wusn’t a blame man of us who wouldn’t hev died to grant her prayer, which wus that she could live to onct more see her lover.”

There was a long silence, during which the old frontiersman sat gazing into the fire with sad eyes.

“We couldn’t do nuthin’, an’ we buried her thar under thet birch, where she smiled her last sad, sweet smile, an’ died.  Ever since then the river has been eatn’ away at this island.  It’s only half as big as it wus onct, an’ another flood will take away this sand-bar, these few birches—­an’ Milly’s grave.”

The old frontiersman’s story affected all his listeners.  The elder minister bowed his head and prayed that no such fate might overtake his nieces.  The young minister looked again, as he had many times that day, at Nell’s winsome face.  The girls cast grave glances at the drooping birch, and their bright tears glistened in the fire-glow.  Once more Joe’s eyes glinted with that steely flash, and as he gazed out over the wide, darkening expanse of water his face grew cold and rigid.

“I’ll allow I might hev told a more cheerful story, an’ I’ll do so next time; but I wanted ye all, particular the lasses, to know somethin’ of the kind of country ye’re goin’ into.  The frontier needs women; but jist yit it deals hard with them.  An’ Jim Girty, with more of his kind, ain’t dead yit.”