“We have been kind to their child,” responded Mr. Wharton, “and that will prevent them from injuring us.”

“I would have been just as kind to the little thing, if we had an army here to protect us,” she rejoined.

“They will know that, Jenny,” he said.  “Indian instincts are keen.  Your gentle eyes and motherly ways are a better defence than armies would be.”  The mild blue eyes thanked him with an affectionate glance.  His words somewhat calmed her fears; but before retiring to rest, she looked out, far and wide, upon the lonely prairie.  It was beautiful, but spectral, in the ghostly veil of moonlight.  Every bolt was carefully examined, and the tin horn hung by the bedside.  When all preparations were completed, she drew aside the window-curtain to look at the children in their trundle-bed, all bathed with silvery moonshine.  They lay with their arms about each other’s necks, the dark brow nestled close to the rosy cheek, and the mass of black hair mingled with the light brown locks.  The little white boy of six summers and the Indian maiden of four slept there as cozily as two kittens with different fur.  The mother gazed on them fondly, as she said,—­

“It is a pretty sight.  I often think what beautiful significance there is in the Oriental benediction, ’May you sleep tranquilly as a child when his friends are with him!’”

“It is, indeed, a charming picture,” rejoined her husband.  “This would be a text for George to preach from; and his sermon would be, that confidence is always born of kindness.”

The fear of Indians vanished from the happy mother’s thoughts, and she fell asleep with a heart full of love for all human kind.

The children were out of their bed by daylight.  The little savage padded about with naked feet, apparently feeling much at home, but seriously incommoded by her night-gown, which she pulled at restlessly, from time to time, saying something in her own dialect, which no one could interpret.  But they understood her gestures, and showed her the kirtle of plaited grass, still damp with the thorough washing it had had the night before.  At sight of it she became quite voluble; but what she said no one knew.  “What gibberish you talk!” exclaimed Charley.  She would not allow him to come near her.  She remembered how he had pulled her hair and tussled with Willie.  But two bright buttons on a string made peace between them.  He put the mop on his head, and shook it at her, saying, “Moppet, you’d be pretty, if you wore your hair like folks.”  Willie was satisfied with this concession; and already the whole family began to outgrow the feeling that the little wayfarer belonged to a foreign race.

Early in the afternoon two Indians came across the prairie.  Moppet saw them first, and announced the discovery by a shrill shout, which the Indiana evidently heard; for they halted instantly, and then walked on faster than before.  When the child went to meet them, the woman quickened her pace a little, and took her hand; but no signs of emotion were perceptible.  As they approached the cabin, Moppet appeared to be answering their brief questions without any signs of fear.  “Poor little thing!” said Mrs. Wharton.  “I am glad they are not angry with her.  I was afraid they might beat her.”