Thus rebuked, Charley walked away somewhat crestfallen.  But before he disappeared at the other end of the piazza, he turned back to sing,—­

“Willie went a-hunting, and caught a pappoose.”

“She a’n’t a pappoose, she’s a little girl,” shouted Willie; “and she’s my little girl.  I didn’t hunt her; I found her.”

Uncle George and his family did not return to their cabin till the warm, yellow tint of the sky had changed to azure-gray.  While consultations were held concerning how it was best to dispose of the little wanderer for the night, she nestled into a corner, where, rolled up like a dog, she fell fast asleep.  A small bed was improvised for her in the kitchen.  But when they attempted to raise her up, she was dreaming of her mother’s wigwam, and, waking suddenly to find herself among strangers, she forgot the events of the preceding hours, and became a pitiful image of terror.  Willie, who was being undressed in another room, was brought in in his nightgown, and the sight of him reassured her.  She clung to him, and refused to be separated from him; and it was finally concluded that she should sleep with her little protector in his trundle-bed, which every night was rolled out from under the bed of his father and mother.  A tub of water was brought, and as Willie jumped into it, and seemed to like to splash about, she was induced to do the same.  The necessary ablutions having been performed, and the clean nightgowns put on, the little ones walked to their trundle-bed hand in hand.  Charley pulled the long hair once more, as they passed, and began to sing, “Willie went a-hunting”; but the young knight-errant was too sleepy and tired to return to the charge.  The older brother soon went to rest also; and all became as still within-doors as it was on the wide, solitary prairie.

The father and mother sat up a little while, one mending a harness, the other repairing a rip in a garment.  They talked together in low tones of Willie’s singular adventure; and Mrs. Wharton asked her husband whether he supposed this child belonged to the Indians whose tracks their man had seen on his way to the mill.  She shared her brother’s kindly feeling toward the red men, because they were an injured and oppressed race.  But, in her old New-England home, she had heard and read stories that made a painful impression on the imagination of childhood; and though she was now a sensible and courageous woman, the idea of Indians in the vicinity rendered the solitude of the wilderness oppressive.  The sudden cry of a night-bird made her start and turn pale.

“Don’t be afraid,” said her husband, soothingly, “It is as George says.  Nothing but justice and kindness is needed to render these wild people firm friends to the whites.”

“I believe it,” she replied; “but treaties with them have been so wickedly violated, and they are so shamefully cheated by Government-agents, that they naturally look upon all white men as their enemies.  How can they know that we are more friendly to them than others?”