out the cheerful prospect that the Indians would bring him, when they returned from their long hunting-excursion; and with this the mother tried to sustain her sinking hopes.  But month after month she saw the snowy expanse of prairie gleaming in the moonlight, and no little footstep broke its untrodden crust.  Spring returned, and the sea of flowers again rippled in waves, as if Flora and her train had sportively taken lessons of the water-nymphs; but no little hands came laden with blossoms to heap in Emma’s lap.  The birds twittered and warbled, but the responsive whistle of the merry boy was silent; only its echo was left in the melancholy halls of memory.  His chair and plate were placed as usual, when the family met at meals.  At first this was done with an undefined hope that he might come before they rose from table, and afterward they could not bear to discontinue the custom, because it seemed like acknowledging that he was entirely gone.

Mrs. Wharton changed rapidly.  The light of her eyes grew dim, the color faded from her cheeks, and the tones of her once cheerful voice became plaintive as the “Light of Other Days.”  Always, from the depths of her weary heart, came up the accusing cry, “Oh, why did I let him go?” She never reproached others; but all the more bitterly did Mr. Wharton, Uncle George, and above all poor Charley, reproach themselves.  The once peaceful cabins were haunted by a little ghost, and the petted child became an accusing spirit.  Alas! who is there that is not chained to some rock of the past, with the vulture of memory tearing at his vitals, screaming forever in the ear of conscience?  These unavailing regrets are inexorable as the whip of the Furies.

Four years had passed away, when some fur-traders passed through that region, and told of a white boy they had seen among the Pottawatomie Indians.  Everybody had heard the story of Willie’s mysterious disappearance, and the tidings were speedily conveyed to the Wharton family.  They immediately wrote to the United-States Agent among that tribe.  After waiting awhile, they all became restless.  One day, Uncle George said to his sister,—­

“Jenny, I have never forgiven myself for leaving your boys to take care of themselves, that fatal day.  I cannot be easy.  I must go in search of Willie.”

“Heaven bless you!” she replied.  “My dear James has just been talking of starting on the same journey.  I confess I want some one to go and look for the poor boy; but it seems to me selfish; for it is a long and difficult journey, and may bring fresh misfortunes upon us.”

After some friendly altercation between Mr. Wharton and the brother, as to which should go, it was decided that George should have his way; and brave, unselfish Aunt Mary uttered no word of dissuasion.  He started on his arduous journey, cheered by hope, and strong in a generous purpose.  It seemed long before a letter was received from him, and when it came, its contents were discouraging.  The Indian Agent said he had caused diligent search to be made, and he was convinced there was no white child among the tribes in that region.  Uncle George persevered in efforts to obtain some clue to the report which had induced him to travel so far.  But after several weeks, he was obliged to return alone, and without tidings.