The pearly moon was slowly rising in the blue aether, when Kenneth Gordon approached his home.  He was weary with his journey, but the pictured visions of his happy home, his smiling wife, and the caresses of his sunny haired children, cheered the father’s heart, though his step was languid, and his brow feverish.  But oh! what a sight of horror for a fond and loving heart met his eyes, as he came in sight of the spot that contained his earthly treasures—­the foreboding silence had surprised him—­he heard not the gleeful voices of his children, as they were wont to bound forth to meet him, he saw not Marion stand at the gate to greet his return—­but a thick black smoke rose heavily to the summits of the trees, and the smouldering logs of the building fell with a sullen noise to the ground.  The rain had quenched the fire, and the house was not all consumed.  Wild with terror, Kenneth rushed forward; his feet slipped on the bloody threshhold, and he fell on the mangled bodies of his father and his children.  The demoniac laceration of the stiffening victims told too plainly who had been their murderers.  How that night of horror passed Kenneth knew not.  The morning sun was shining bright—­when the bereaved and broken-hearted man was roused from the stupor of despair by the sound of the word “father” in his ears; he raised his eyes, and beheld Mary, his eldest daughter, on her knees beside him.  For a moment Kenneth fancied he had had a dreadful dream, but the awful reality was before him.  He pressed Mary wildly to his bosom, and a passionate flood of tears relieved his burning brain.  Mary had heard the yells of the savages, and the shrieks of her mother convinced her that the dreaded Indians had arrived.  She threw open the window, and snatching the infant from its bed, flew like a wounded deer to the woods behind the house.  The frightened girl heard all, remained quiet, and knowing her father would soon return, left the little Alice asleep on some dried leaves, and ventured from her hiding place.

No trace of Marion or of Charles could be found—­they had been reserved for a worse fate; and for months a vigilant search was kept up—­parties of the settlers, led on by Kenneth, scoured the woods night and day.  Many miles off a bloody battle had been fought between two hostile tribes, where a part of Marion’s dress and of her son’s was found, but here all trace of the Indians ended, and Kenneth returned to his desolated home.  No persuasion could induce him to leave the place where the joys of his heart had been buried:  true, his remaining children yet linked him to life, but his love for them only increased his sorrow for the dead and the lost.  Kenneth became a prematurely old man—­his dark hair faded white as the mountain snow—­his brow was wrinkled, and his tall figure bent downwards to the earth.