We will not follow the persevering brother through all his travels.  Again and again he came close upon the track, and had the disappointment of arriving a little too late.  On a chilly day of advanced autumn, he mounted a pony and rode toward a Canadian forest, where he was told some Indians had encamped.  He tied his pony at the entrance of the wood, and followed a path through the underbrush.  He had walked about a quarter of a mile, when his ears were pierced by a shrill, discordant yell, which sounded neither animal nor human.  He stopped abruptly, and listened.  All was still, save a slight creaking of boughs in the wind.  He pressed forward in the direction whence the sound had come, not altogether free from anxiety, though habitually courageous.  He soon came in sight of a cluster of wigwams, outside of which, leaning against trees, or seated on the fallen leaves, were a number of men, women, and children, dressed in all sorts of mats and blankets, some with tufts of feathers in their hair, others with bands and tassels of gaudy-colored wampum.  One or two had a regal air, and might have stood for pictures of Arab chiefs or Carthaginian generals; but most of them looked squalid and dejected.  None of them manifested any surprise at the entrance of the stranger.  All were as grave as owls.  They had, in fact, seen him coming through the woods, and had raised their ugly war-whoop, in sport, to see whether it would frighten him.  It was their solemn way of enjoying fun.  Among them was a youth, tanned by exposure to wind and sun, but obviously of white complexion.  His hair was shaggy, and cut straight across his forehead, as Moppet’s had been.  Charles fixed upon him a gaze so intense that he involuntarily took up a hatchet that lay beside him, as if he thought it might be necessary to defend himself from the intruder.

“Can any of you speak English?” inquired Charles.

“Me speak,” replied an elderly man.

Charles explained that he wanted to find a white young man who had been in Indiana and Michigan searching for his mother.

“Him pale-face,” rejoined the interpreter, pointing to the youth, whose brown eyes glanced from one to the other with a perplexed expression.

Charles made a strong effort to restrain his impatience, while the interpreter slowly explained his errand.  The pale-faced youth came toward him.

“Let me examine your right arm,” said Charles.

The beaver-skin mantle was raised; and there, in a dotted outline of blue spots, was the likeness of the prairie-dog which in boyish play he had pricked into Willie’s arm.  With a joyful cry he fell upon his neck, exclaiming, “My brother!” The interpreter repeated the word in the Indian tongue.  The youthful stranger uttered no sound; but Charles felt his heart throb, as they stood locked in a close embrace.  When their arms unclasped, they looked earnestly into each other’s faces.  That sad memory of the promise made to their gentle mother, and so thoughtlessly broken, brought tears to the eyes of the elder brother; but the younger stood apparently unmoved.  The interpreter, observing this, said,—­