“It was my intent to have had little Neebin,” replied the young lady.  “It would have sounded so prettily in England to say that an Indian Princess stood up with me, for Miles says that she is the sister of a great king—­of Waqua—­; thou dost recollect him, Prudence?”

“The funny salvage,” said the girl, “who mistook a painting for a live man.  But to think of the like of the sister of an Indian, though he be a handsome fellow, going to the ’menial halter with my mistress!” she added, tossing her head.

“The danger is past, Prudence,” said Eveline, “for Miles tells me she has run away from the Governor’s, and was last seen in the woods with one of her brother’s Paniese, as the savages call their greatest warriors, Town—­, Town—­, I forget his name, but they were going in the direction of their own country.”

“Toweringantic was the salvage’s name,” said Prudence.  “I remember it very well, because it sounds so like English.”

“That is it not precisely,” said the young lady, with a smile; “but it matters not about the name.  Our little Princess has fled to her home, and I am left without a bridesmaid.”

“The ungrateful heathen!” exclaimed the dame.  “Only to think of her deserting the comfortable house of our right worshipful Governor, and instruction in the Christian graces by godly Master Phillips, for the smoky wigwams and powawing of the Indians.  The girl, I am sure, will come to no good, and I will never trust one of these Canaanites again.”

“Nay; but dame,” said Eveline, “I rejoice that she escaped.  I did much pity her in her captivity, for she seemed to me like a wild bird, that hath all its life been accustomed to fly in the air, which had been caught and put into a cage, where it sits constantly with moping head and drooping wings, forgetful of the songs which made its woodland home so sweet.”

“I did never like to disagree in opinion with thee, Eveline,” said the dame, “and leastwise would I do so, of all days in the year, on thy wedding-day; so have it as thou wilt.  For thy sweet sake, whom I am so soon to lose, I could find it in my heart to be pleased at anything the little savage might do, were she twenty times a heathen Amalakite or Jebusite.”

“Dame,” said Eveline, kissing her comely cheek, “how shall I ever be able to repay thy motherly kindness?  O, wherever I may be, and whatever my lot, I will ever think of thee as my second mother.”

“Dear child,” replied the dame, moved to tears, which flowed with womanly facility, “never had mother a sweeter and more loving daughter than thou hast been to me.  Hast thou not done more than most daughters, in giving me all the property that remains to thee here?”

“Speak not of it, dame,” answered Eveline, “though it is Miles’ gift, for he desired me to give it thee.”

“Oh! dame, do not disturb my young lady more, for if you get her crying, think how her eyes would look,” here interposed Prudence, very sensibly.