In his keen expectation and wonder as to what the village would be like, Jim momentarily forgot his brother’s disappearance, and when he arrived at the top of the bank he surveyed the scene with eagerness.  What he saw was more imposing than the Village of Peace which he had conjured up in his imagination.  Confronting him was a level plain, in the center of which stood a wide, low structure surrounded by log cabins, and these in turn encircled by Indian teepees.  A number of large trees, mostly full-foliaged maples, shaded the clearing.  The settlement swarmed with Indians.  A few shrill halloes uttered by the first observers of the newcomers brought braves, maidens and children trooping toward the party with friendly curiosity.

Jonathan Zane stepped before a cabin adjoining the large structure, and called in at the open door.  A short, stoop-shouldered white man, clad in faded linsey, appeared on the threshold.  His serious, lined face had the unmistakable benevolent aspect peculiar to most teachers of the gospel.

“Mr. Zeisberger, I’ve fetched a party from Fort Henry,” said Zane, indicating those he had guided.  Then, without another word, never turning his dark face to the right or left, he hurried down the lane through the throng of Indians.

Jim remembered, as he saw the guide vanish over the bank of the creek, that he had heard Colonel Zane say that Jonathan, as well as Wetzel, hated the sight of an Indian.  No doubt long years of war and bloodshed had rendered these two great hunters callous.  To them there could be no discrimination—­an Indian was an Indian.

“Mr. Wells, welcome to the Village of Peace!” exclaimed Mr. Zeisberger, wringing the old missionary’s hand.  “The years have not been so long but that I remember you.”

“Happy, indeed, am I to get here, after all these dark, dangerous journeys,” returned Mr. Wells.  “I have brought my nieces, Nell and Kate, who were children when you left Williamsburg, and this young man, James Downs, a minister of God, and earnest in his hope for our work.”

“A glorious work it is!  Welcome, young ladies, to our peaceful village.  And, young man, I greet you with heartfelt thankfulness.  We need young men.  Come in, all of your, and share my cabin.  I’ll have your luggage brought up.  I have lived in this hut alone.  With some little labor, and the magic touch women bring to the making of a home, we can be most comfortable here.”

Mr. Zeisberger gave his own room to the girls, assuring them with a smile that it was the most luxurious in the village.  The apartment contained a chair, a table, and a bed of Indian blankets and buffalo robes.  A few pegs driven in the chinks between the logs completed the furnishings.  Sparse as were the comforts, they appealed warmly to the girls, who, weary from their voyage, lay down to rest.

“I am not fatigued,” said Mr. Wells, to his old friend.  “I want to hear all about your work, what you have done, and what you hope to do.”