To my surprise she was gone, and supposing she had risen a short time before, I hurriedly dressed myself and went down stairs to help keep her company.

But she was not there, and father and mother had seen nothing of her.  She had no doubt risen in the night and gone quietly away.

There was something curious and touching in the fact that she had groped about in the darkness, until she found her own clothing, which she put on and departed without taking so much as a pin that belonged to us.

We all felt a strong interest in Chitto, and father took me with him a few days later when he visited Lac Qui Parle.  He made many inquiries for the little girl, but could learn nothing about her.

I felt very much disappointed, for I had built up strong hopes of taking her out home with me to spend several days.

Father and I went a number of times afterward, and always made an effort to discover Chitto; but we did not gain any knowledge of her.

On the afternoon of August 19, father was sitting in his accustomed seat in front of the house, and mother was engaged, as usual about her household duties.  I was playing and amusing myself as a girl of my age is inclined to do at all times.

The day was sultry and close, and I remember that father was unusually pale and weak.  He coughed a great deal, and sat for a long time so still that I thought he must be asleep.

“Mother,” said I, “what is that smoke yonder?”

I pointed in the direction of Lac Qui Parle.  She saw a dark column of smoke floating off in the horizon, its location being such, that there could be no doubt that it was at the Agency.

“There is a fire of some kind there,” she said, while she shaded her eyes with her hand and gazed long and earnestly in that direction.

“The Indians are coming, Edward,” she called to father; “they will be here in a few minutes!”

Suddenly, a splendid black horse came galloping from the woods, and with two or three powerful bounds, halted directly in front of me.  As it did so, I saw that the bareback rider was a small girl, and she was our little Sioux friend, Chitto.

She made a striking picture, with her long, black hair streaming over her shoulders, and her dress fluttering in the wind.

“Why, Chitto,” said I, in amazement, “where did you come from?”

“Must go—­must go—­must go!” she exclaimed, in great excitement.  “Indian soon be here!”

So it seemed that, in the few weeks since she had been at our house, she had picked up enough of the English language to make herself understood.

“What do you mean?” asked mother, as she and I advanced to the side of the black steed upon which the little Sioux sat; “what are the Indians doing?”

“They burn buildings—­have killed people—­coming this way!”

Chitto spoke the truth, for the Sioux were raging like demons at that very hour at Lac Qui Parle.