It is not to be supposed that Mr. Mason contemplated the probable renewal of hostilities without great anxiety.  For himself, we need scarcely say, he had no fears; but his heart sank when he thought of his gentle Alice falling into the hands of savages.  As the night passed away without any alarms, his anxiety began to subside, and when Sunday morning dawned, he lay down on a couch to snatch a few hours’ repose before the labors of the day.

The first object that greeted the pastor’s eyes on awaking in the morning was a black visage, and a pair of glittering eyes gazing at him through the half-open door with an expression of the utmost astonishment.

He leaped up with lightning speed and darted towards the intruder, but checked himself suddenly, and smiled, as poor Poopy uttered a scream, and, falling on her knees, implored for mercy.

“My poor girl, I fear I have frightened you by my violence,” said he, sitting down on his couch and yawning sleepily; “but I was dreaming, Poopy; and when I saw your black face peeping at me, I took you at first for one of the wild fellows on the other side of the mountains.  You have come to sweep and arrange my study, I suppose.”

“Why, mass’r, you no hab go to bed yet,” said Poopy, still feeling and expressing surprise at her master’s unwonted irregularity.  “Is you ill?”

“Not at all, my good girl; only a little tired.  It is not a time for me to take much rest when the savages are said to be about to attack us.”

“When is they coming?” inquired the girl, meekly.

The pastor smiled as he replied, “That is best known to themselves, Poopy.  Do you think it likely that murderers or thieves would send to let us know when they were coming.”

“Hee! hee!” laughed Poopy, with an immense display of teeth and gums.

“Is Alice awake?” inquired Mr. Mason.

“No; her be sound ’sleep wid her two eye shut tight up, dis fashion, and her mout’ wide open—­so.”

The representation of Alice’s condition, as given by her maid, although hideously unlike the beautiful object they were meant to call up to her father’s mind, were sufficiently expressive and comprehensible.

“Go wake her, my girl, and let us have breakfast as soon as you can.  Has Will Corrie been here this morning?”

“Hims bin here all night,” replied the girl, with a broad grin (and the breadth of Poopy’s broad grin was almost appalling).

“What mean you,—­has he slept in this house all night?”

“Yes—­eh! no,” said Poopy.

“Yes, no!” exclaimed Mr. Mason.  “Come, Poopy, don’t be stupid, explain yourself.”

“Hee! hee! hee! yes, ho! ho! ho!” laughed Poopy, as if the idea of explaining herself was about the richest joke she had listened to since she was born.  “Hee! hee! me no can ‘xplain; but you com here an’ see.”

So saying, she conducted her wondering master to the front door of the cottage, where, across the threshold, directly under the porch, lay the form of the redoubted Corrie, fast asleep, and armed to the teeth!