CHAPTER XI.

PENITENCE AND PARDON.

Fanny arrived at the station near Woodville by the early train from the city. On the way, she had been thinking of her own guilt, and considering what she should do and say when she stood in the presence of her injured friends. She was not studying how to conceal or palliate her offence, but how she could best tell the whole truth. She gave herself no credit for any good deed she had done during her absence; she did not flatter herself that she had been benevolent and kind in using the stolen money as she had used it; she did not believe that her tender vigil at the bedside of the dying girl made her less guilty.

She felt that she deserved a severe punishment, and that it would do her good to suffer for what she had done. She was even willing to be sent to prison, to be disgraced, and banished from the happy home at Woodville, whose hospitality she had abused. She felt that the penalty of her errors, whatever it might be, would do her good. She was filled with contrition and shame as she left the station; she hung her head, and did not dare to look the people she met in the face. The Fanny who went from Woodville a few days before had returned an entirely different being.

Slowly and gloomily she walked down the road that led to the residence of Mr. Grant. It seemed as though she had been absent a year, and everything looked strange to her, though the change was all in herself. All the currents of her former life had ceased to flow; the movements of the wheel of events had been abruptly suspended. What gladdened her before did not gladden her now, and what had once been a joy was now a sorrow. She felt as though she had been transferred from the old world, in which she had rejoiced in mischief and wrong, to a new world, whose hopes and joys had not yet been revealed to her.

She approached the cottage of Mr. Long, the constable, who had probably been engaged in the search for her since her departure. She went up to the door and knocked. Mr. Long had just finished his breakfast, and she was shown into the little parlor.

"So you have got back, Fanny Grant," said he, very coldly and sternly, as he entered the room where she stood waiting for him.

"I have," she replied, just raising her eyes from the floor.

"Where have you been?"

"In New York city."

"Where did you stay?"

"At the house of a poor woman in the upper part of the city."

"I thought so; or I should have found you. You have been a very bad girl, Fanny."

"I know it, sir. You may send me to prison now, for I deserve the worst you can do to me," replied Fanny, choking with her emotions.

"You ought to be sent there. What did you come here for?"

"I stole the money, and I suppose you were sent to catch me. I am willing to be sent to prison."

"You are very obliging," sneered the constable. "We don't generally ask people whether they are willing or not when we send them to prison."

"I give myself up to you; and you can do with me what you think best."

"I know I can."

"You didn't catch me. I come here of myself; that is what I meant by saying that I was willing to be sent to prison."

"What have you done with the money you stole?" asked the constable, who was very much astonished at the singular conduct of Fanny.

"I have spent most of it."

"I suppose so," replied Mr. Long, who deemed it his duty to be stern and unsympathizing. "How did you spend it?"

"I will tell Mr. Grant all about it," answered Fanny, who did not care to repeat her story to such a person as the constable; and she felt that he would be fully justified in disbelieving her statements.

"Perhaps you will tell me, if I wish you to do so."

"I will, but I would rather tell Mr. Grant first, for it is a long story, and you will think it is a very strange one."

"No doubt it is," said the constable, perplexed by the replies of the culprit, and doubtful what course he should pursue.

"I suppose Mr. Grant has not got home yet," added Fanny. "You can put me in prison till he gets back; or I will solemnly promise you I will not run away."

"Your promises are not worth much. Mr. Grant has got home. He came home just as soon as he heard that you had gone off. You have given him a heap of trouble, and you must settle the case with him. I will take you over to the house, and I promise you I won't lose sight of you again."

"I will not attempt to get away," replied Fanny, meekly.

"I won't trust you," said Mr. Long, putting on his hat.

"I don't ask you to trust me."

"Come with me," he added, taking her by the arm.

"You need not hold me; I will not run away," said Fanny, as she left the house with the constable, who seemed determined to hold on to her as though she were some desperate ruffian, instead of a weak and self-convicted girl.

"You won't get away from me, you may depend upon it," continued Mr. Long, as they walked towards the mansion of Mr. Grant.

The constable seemed to be actuated by the vanity to make people believe that he had made a capture, and he did not release his grasp upon his prisoner till they reached their destination. They met several people, who stopped and stared at them, and evidently thought the constable had done a great thing. Mr. Long rang the bell at the front door. The man-servant, who admitted them, started with astonishment when he saw Fanny. They were shown to the library, and informed that Mr. Grant was at breakfast.

"You can sit down in that chair," said the constable, pointing to a seat. "If you attempt to get away, I shall put the handcuffs on you."

"I don't want to get away. I came back of my own accord," replied Fanny, astonished rather than indignant at the absurd behavior of the constable.

"You are bad enough to do almost anything."

"I hope I am not so bad as I was."

"Perhaps you do hope so; but we shall see."

"Can you tell me where Kate Magner is now?" asked Fanny, as Mr. Long relapsed into silence and pompous dignity.

"She is at home, I suppose. She wasn't quite bad enough for you, it seems."

"I hope she was not punished for what she did, for it was all my fault."

"That's a fact. You have told the truth for once."

"I mean always to tell the truth now, Mr. Long," said Fanny.

"When you have done it a while, perhaps we can believe you. The Magner girl told the whole story, and delivered up the money you gave her; that saved her."

"I am glad she was not punished."

"She was punished."

"Then I am sorry, for it was I who led her away."

"We all know that. Now, be still; Mr. Grant is coming," said the constable.

Mr. Grant entered the library, and walked towards the chair where Fanny sat, taking no notice of the constable. He paused before her, looking very sad, but very stern. Fanny's bosom was bounding with emotion. She trembled; her heart was rising up into her throat, and choking her. She raised her eyes from the floor and glanced at him,—only one glance at that sad, stern face,—and then burst into tears. She did not mean to weep; did not mean to do anything which could appeal to the sympathy of her kind friend and benefactor, but she could not help it.

"I have brought her up to you, Mr. Grant," said the constable.

"Where did you find her?"

Mr. Long would have preferred to let Mr. Grant believe that he had caught her himself; but the question was so direct that he could only give a direct answer.

"She came to my house this morning."

"Very well, Mr. Long; I will not trouble you to remain any longer," added Mr. Grant.

"I hope you will not let her get away from you, sir," said the constable, who thought his official position was slighted by this intimation; and he was curious to hear what the culprit had to say for herself.

"I will not try to get away, Mr. Grant," interposed Fanny.

"There is no fear of her getting away, even if she is disposed to do so."

Mr. Long found himself obliged to leave, his office ignored, and his curiosity ungratified.

"Where have you been, Fanny Jane?" asked Mr. Grant, when the constable had gone, his tones being the counterpart of his stern, sad face.

"In New York," replied Fanny, still sobbing.

"What have you done with the money you took from the drawer in the closet?"

"I spent most of it."

"For what did you spend it?"

"I have come back to tell the whole truth, Mr. Grant. I have been very wicked and ungrateful to you. I am very sorry for what I have done; I don't ask you to forgive me, for I know you can't. I am willing to be punished as you think best, for I deserve the worst you can do to me."

Mr. Grant was a tender-hearted man. Perhaps his own children had suffered from the gentleness of his nature; if they had, the injury had been more than compensated for in the blessings imparted by his tenderness. He was more than astonished at the attitude of the returned wanderer. Fanny had never before been known to be in such a frame of mind. The sternness of his expression passed away; there was nothing but the sadness left. Probably he doubted the sincerity of the culprit's contrition; at least he did not realize the depth and earnestness of it.

"I will hear whatever you wish to say," replied he, seating himself in his easy chair.

"I have been so wicked that I know you will find it hard to believe me; but I mean to tell the whole truth," sobbed Fanny.

"I hope you do. You may wait till you are better able to speak. The letter you sent to Mrs. Green informed us where you were, but we were unable to find you."

"I came home as soon as I could; and I did not wish you to find me till I had done what I had to do," answered Fanny, drying her tears.

She then commenced the narrative of her adventures from the time she had parted with Miss Fanny. She told how she had let the cat out of the drawer, and how she had found where the money was actually concealed; she related very minutely every incident that had occurred up to the time she had seen Mr. O'Shane and Mrs. Kent in front of the house in New York. At this point Mr. Grant became intensely interested in the story, and when Fanny said that she had paid the poor woman's rent with one hundred dollars of the stolen money, a slight smile gathered upon his sad face.

Then she related the particulars of her interview with the sick girl, mentioning even the hymns she had sung to her. She described as well as she could the impression made upon her by the beautiful and patient sufferer; the sense of her own guilt and wickedness, which had then and there dawned upon her; and the oppressive burden she had borne in her soul when she went down into the city, which did not permit her to enjoy the pleasures of the great metropolis for which she had stolen the money, and run away from her home. Fanny was eloquent, but the simple truth was her only inspiration.

Mr. Grant evidently understood the frame of mind which she described, and when she came to her final interview with the dying girl, he could hardly repress a tear in his own eyes. Fanny omitted nothing, but told every incident, and repeated all she could remember of the conversation of poor Jenny,—and hardly a word of it was forgotten,—confirming her statement by exhibiting the anchor on her bosom, and the paper given her by the dying saint.

Mr. Grant read the paper, and the tears came to his eyes in spite of his efforts to suppress them.

"For her sake, Fanny, I forgive you," said he.

"I do not deserve to be forgiven, sir," sobbed Fanny.

"I could not resist such an appeal as this," answered Mr. Grant, glancing at the paper again.

"I would have come home then, when poor Jenny was gone, but I thought I ought to stay and do what I could for the poor woman;" and Fanny continued her narrative, describing everything that took place at Mrs. Kent's till her departure, including her visit to Dr. Porter's, the funeral, and her confession to the bereaved mother.

"Mrs. Kent felt very bad when I told her that I had stolen the money; and she promised to pay you all I had spent for her. She gave me this note for you," continued Fanny, handing him the paper.

Mr. Grant glanced at it, and put it in his pocket.

"Fanny, if your penitence is sincere, as I hope and believe it is, I shall be thankful that this event has happened," said he. "I should have been glad of an opportunity to do what you have done with my money. It would have been wrong for you to steal it, even to relieve the distress of so needy and deserving a person as the soldier's wife; but you have put it to a good use. It is impossible for me to doubt your story, but I wish to confirm it. When you have had your breakfast, you may go to the city with me, and we will visit Mrs. Kent."

"I have told the whole truth, Mr. Grant; and I am willing to do anything you say. I did not ask or expect to be forgiven."

"I could have forgiven you, even without the request of the dying girl."

"I do not deserve it. I expected to be sent to prison," sobbed the penitent.

"I never thought of sending you to prison, or to any such place. I say I forgive you, but I shall be compelled to send you to your uncle's in Minnesota."

"I am willing to go," replied Fanny, who, a week before, would have deemed this a greater hardship than being sent to prison.

Fanny went to her breakfast. Mrs. Green and the servants were surprised, not to say disgusted, to see Mr. Grant treat her with so much tenderness.

CHAPTER XII.

THE NEW HOME.

When Fanny had finished her breakfast, she put on her best clothes, and started for New York with Mr. Grant, who, perhaps, was more desirous of assisting the mother of Jenny than of confirming the story to which he had just listened with so much interest and sympathy. We need not say that the narrative of the returned wanderer was found to be true in every respect, or that Mr. Grant destroyed the poor woman's note of hand, by which she promised to pay the sums Fanny had expended in her behalf.

Mrs. Kent, while she condemned and regretted the misdeeds of Fanny, was enthusiastic in the praise she bestowed upon her kindness to the dying girl, and of her tenderness and devotion in those last trying hours. Mr. Grant could not doubt that a great change had come over Fanny; that she earnestly intended to lead a true and good life. Whether she would persevere, and in any degree realize her present high aspirations, remained yet to be demonstrated; but he was hopeful. The solemn and impressive scene through which she had passed had left deep impressions upon her mind and heart, which he hoped would prove as lasting as they were strong.

Mr. Grant called with Fanny to see Dr. Porter; and the benevolent physician gladdened his heart by the warm commendations he lavished upon Fanny; and, without knowing of her misdeeds, he declared she was a treasure in whom her friends ought continually to rejoice. It was not necessary that he should know what evil she had done, for he might never see her again, and Mr. Grant's business with him related solely to the future comfort of the soldier's family. The doctor had done everything that could be done for Mrs. Kent, and his family were so deeply interested in the poor woman that she was not likely to suffer in the future. Mr. Grant promised to see him again, and coöperate with him in doing what might be needed for her comfort and happiness.

Mr. Grant and Fanny returned to Woodville by the noon train. The penitent girl felt that she had been forgiven, and the kindness of her friend made her all the more determined to be faithful to the resolutions she had made. She had not hoped to escape the punishment she merited, and had not been prepared for the tender words which had been addressed to her when it was evident that her penitence was real.

"Fanny," said Mr. Grant, as they entered the library, on her return, "I shall, as I said before, be obliged to send you to your uncle in Minnesota."

"I am willing to go, sir," replied she, humbly.

"I understand you have frequently declared that you would not go."

"I have, but I am sorry I said anything of the kind."

"But I do not intend to send you there as a punishment for what you have done. I freely forgive you."

"You are very kind to me, Mr. Grant, and I will do anything you wish without complaining."

"I am glad to see so excellent a spirit in you, which makes me sorry to send you away at this time. If your conduct had warranted it before, I might have made different arrangements; but it is too late now. I have written to your uncle, informing him that you would be with him next week. I promised him and your aunt, when I brought you here, that you should be returned to them in two years; and that time has now expired. We shall be absent in Europe about six months; when we return, if your uncle is willing, I should be very glad to have you come back to Woodville. I hope you will like your aunt better than you used to like her."

"I shall, sir."

Mr. Grant did not think it necessary to indulge in any long lectures. He had forgiven Fanny, and he hoped her future conduct would justify his clemency. Mrs. Green and the servants saw that she was a different being. She was no longer rough, disobedient, and impertinent, for she entered at once upon her effort to be kind and obliging to all in the house. In the afternoon Mr. Grant went up to Hudson, where he had left Bertha and Fanny. When he had gone, the reformed girl paid a visit to Ben the boatman, still confined to his bed with the rheumatism. She surprised him by offering to read to him from the Bible—an offer which he gladly accepted.

The next day she went to school, carrying a note to the teacher, which Mr. Grant had written for her. She expected to be reproached and reproved here, but the teacher did not allude to her past conduct, prompted in this course by the note; her companions were astonished and awed by her quiet dignity, and even Kate Magner said less than might have been expected. Fanny told her what had happened after the separation at Pennville, and solemnly assured her that she intended always to be a good girl in the future.

Fanny spent Saturday afternoon with Ben, seated by his bedside till dark, reading and singing to him, giving him his medicine, and supplying all his wants. She told him the story of her wanderings in New York, of the death and the funeral of Jenny, all of which the kindness and tenderness of Fanny to himself made real. He commended her good resolutions, and hoped that, in her new home in the West, she would be able to carry them out.

On Monday the family returned from Hudson, and Fanny repeated her story to Bertha and her sister. They were moved to tears by her narrative. It had seemed to them that nothing short of a miracle could reform the wayward girl; but the miracle had been wrought, as was fully proved during the remainder of Fanny's stay at Woodville. It did not seem possible that the gentle and obliging girl, who was a blessing to all in the house, had ever been the grief and the sorrow of her friends, a thorn and a torment to all who came in contact with her.

When the time for Fanny to leave for Minnesota arrived, it was hard for the family to part with her. Miss Fanny begged that the arrangements might be altered; that she might be permitted to remain at Woodville, or even to go to Europe with them; but her father thought it best that the original plan should be carried out; he believed that it would be better for Fanny herself. There were many tears shed when they parted. Miss Fanny was sorry to lose her protégée just as her teachings, quickened into life by her visit to the city, were beginning to bear their fruits.

Mr. Grant had decided to attend the young traveller to her new home, for he was unwilling to trust her to the care of any chance friend who might undertake the charge of her, fearful lest the good impressions which were beginning to take root in her soul might be weakened during the long journey. They travelled leisurely, and at the end of a week reached Mankato, at the great bend of the Minnesota River, in the southern part of the state.

John Grant, Fanny's uncle, lived at a settlement near the southern line of the state, about seventy miles from Mankato; and thither Mr. Grant and Fanny proceeded in a wagon, hired for the purpose. They were warmly welcomed by the settlers, who seldom saw any one from the busy walks of civilization. Mr. Grant remained but one day, which he used mainly in informing the future guardians of Fanny in regard to her moral, mental, and spiritual needs. He told them of the change which had come over her, and hoped they would do all they could to foster and encourage the growth of her good principles. When he had faithfully discharged his duty to his late charge, he took an affectionate leave of her, and departed for his home, returning to Mankato in the wagon by which he had come.

Fanny now entered upon her new life, and had an opportunity to take a survey of her future home. The settlement consisted of about fifty persons, most of whom had emigrated from states east of the Mississippi. Among them were a few Germans, Swedes, and Norwegians. The country was a perfect garden by nature, and the rich, deep soil produced the most abundant crops. The settlement was located on one of those beautiful lakes for which Minnesota is distinguished, whose bright, clear waters abound in fish. The lake was eight miles in length, with an average width of about three miles. From it flowed a small stream, and after receiving other tributaries, discharged its waters into the Watonwan, which in its turn entered the Minnesota.

John Grant was one of the most important persons at the settlement. He had cleared up a large farm on the border of the lake, and, with more means at the beginning than most of his neighbors, had realized a high degree of prosperity. As he had no children of his own, he was glad to have Fanny as a member of his family, especially since he had learned of the improvement in her conduct.

About one third of the population of the settlement were children, and a school had been established for their benefit. The instructor, Mr. Osborne, a young man, brother of one of the settlers, had lost his right leg and his left arm by a terrible railroad accident. He was a graduate of an Ohio college, and had been engaged in preparing himself for the ministry when the calamity occurred which rendered him unfit for the active duties of life. From choice rather than from necessity, he remained with his brother at the settlement, being both teacher and preacher.

Fanny immediately entered his school, and devoted herself with great earnestness to her studies. She soon became a favorite of Mr. Osborne, who had learned a portion of her history, and felt a strong interest in her welfare. She was a good scholar, and her progress was entirely satisfactory to her teacher.

In the home of her uncle, Fanny found, on her arrival, a boy of her own age. His name was Ethan French; and he had come from Illinois with Mr. Grant to work on the farm. He had no parents living, and was expected to remain with his employer till he was twenty-one. He was an uncouth fellow, and though he could read, write, and cipher, he seemed to be as uncultivated and bearish as the wild Indians that roamed through the country. Fanny tried to be his friend, and never neglected an opportunity to do him a kindness; but the more she tried to serve him, the more the distance between them seemed to be increased.

"I don't want nothin' to do with gals," was a favorite maxim with Ethan; and Fanny found it impossible to be very sociable with him. He did not repel or resent her well-meant advances; but he edged off, and got out of the way as fast as he could.

Fanny had made up her mind, before she came to her uncle's home, to be contented and happy there; and she was surprised to find that she liked her new residence very much. Her aunt was by no means the person her former experience had taught her to believe she was. Fanny was docile and obedient, and Mrs. Grant was no longer unjust and tyrannical. They agreed together remarkably well, and during the short period they were permitted to be together, no hard thoughts existed, and no harsh words passed between them.

Though Fanny had not been accustomed to work at Woodville, she readily adapted herself to her new station. There were no servants at the settlement; people did their own work; and Fanny, true to the good principles she had chosen, did all she could to assist her aunt.

Let it not be supposed that Fanny had no temptations; that the new life upon which she had entered was free from peril and struggles. She was tempted from within and without; tempted to be unjust, unkind, wilful, and disobedient. We cannot even say that she did not sometimes yield to those temptations; but she prayed for strength to resist them. She labored to be true to her high purpose. The anchor which she always wore on her breast frequently reminded her of her short-comings—frequently recalled the memories of the dying angel who had spoken peace to her troubled soul.

"Hope and Have," she often said to herself; and the words were a talisman to keep her in the path of duty. Continually she kept before her what she hoped to be, and continually she labored to attain the high and beautiful ideal of a true life.

She was happy in her new home, and her friends were happy in her presence there; but not long was this happiness to continue, for even then was gathering in the distance the storm which was to overwhelm them with woe and desolation. An experience of the most awful and trying character was in store for Fanny, for which her growth in grace and goodness was the best, and indeed the only preparation.

By treaty and purchase the United States government had obtained vast tracts of the lands of the various sub-tribes of the Sioux and Dakotah Indians. By the original treaty the natives had reserved for their own use the country on both sides of the Minnesota River, including a tract one hundred and fifty miles in length by twenty in breadth. When the Senate of the United States came to act upon the treaty, it was made a condition of the approval that this reservation should also be ceded to the whites. The Indians assented to the condition, but no lands being appropriated for their use, as agreed, they had moved upon the reservation, and their right to it was recognized.

A portion of this reservation was subsequently acquired by purchase, but the Indians continued to occupy the rest of it. By the various treaties, the Indians were paid certain sums of money every year, and supplied with quantities of goods, such as blankets, clothing, tools, and arms. But the money was not paid, nor the goods delivered, when due. The Indians were cheated by traders, and the debts due the latter were taken from the money to be paid the former. The neglect of the government,—fully occupied in suppressing the rebellion at the South,—and the immense frauds practised upon the simple natives, roused their indignation, and stirred up a hatred which culminated in the most terrible Indian massacre recorded in the annals of our country.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE INDIAN MASSACRE.

Though there were no Indians residing very near the Lake Settlement, they frequently visited the place, and the settlers were on familiar terms with them. At the house of John Grant they were always treated with kindness and a generous hospitality. Among those who sometimes came was a chief called Lean Bear. Fanny was much interested in these denizens of the forest, and she exerted herself to please them, and particularly the chief of the Red Irons, as his tribe was called. She sang to him, brought him milk and bread, and treated him like a great man. He was a brawny fellow, morose and savage, and though he smiled slightly, he did not seem to appreciate her kindness.

About the 15th of August, when Fanny had been at the settlement less than two months, Mr. Grant started for one of the Indian Agencies, on the Minnesota River, for the purpose of procuring supplies of the traders in that vicinity. He went with a wagon and a span of horses, intending to be absent ten days.

One morning, when he had been gone a week, Mrs. Grant was milking the cows, of which they kept twenty. Ethan was helping her, and Fanny, not yet a proficient in the art, was doing what she could to assist. Doubtless she was rather bungling in the operation, for the cow was not as patient as usual.

"Seems like you gals from the east don't know much," laughed Ethan. "You are on the wrong side of the creetur."

"So I am! I thought there was something wrong, for the cow don't stand quiet," replied Fanny.

"No wonder; cows allers wants things did accordin' to rule," added Ethan.

"I didn't mind that I was on the wrong side."

"What do the gals do out east that they don't know how to milk?"

"They don't milk there."

"They don't do nothin'—do they?"

"Not much; at least, they didn't at Woodville."

"Well, gals isn't good for much, nohow," said Ethan, philosophically, as he commenced milking another cow.

"They can do some things as well as boys."

"Perhaps they kin; but you couldn't milk a cow till you kim out hyer."

"I could not."

"Hokee!" suddenly exclaimed Ethan. "What's all that mean?"

"What, Ethan?"

"Don't you see all them hosses up to the house? Hokee! Them's Injins, as sure's you live!"

Fanny looked, and saw about twenty Indians ride up to the house and dismount. The sight did not alarm her, though it was rather early in the morning for such a visit.

"D'ye see all them Injins, Miss Grant?" said Ethan to his mistress.

"Dear me! What can they want at this time in the morning? I must go into the house, and see to them, for they'll steal like all possessed."

Mrs. Grant put her milk-pail in a safe place, and hastened to the house, which she reached before any of the savages had secured their horses. Five or six of the visitors entered by the front door, and the rest assembled in a group, a short distance from the dwelling.

"I wonder what them redskins wants here so airly in the mornin'," mused Ethan, when Mrs. Grant had gone. "I wonder ef they know there ain't no one to home but women folks and boys."

"Suppose they do know,—what then?" asked Fanny.

"Nothin'; only I reckon they kim to steal sunthin'."

"They wouldn't steal from aunt Grant."

"Wouldn't they, though!" exclaimed Ethan, incredulously.

"She has been very kind to them."

"They'd steal from their own mothers," added Ethan, as he finished milking another cow, and moved towards a third.

As he crossed the yard he stopped to look at the horses, and to see what had become of the riders.

"Hokee!" cried he, using his favorite expression when excited.

"What's the matter, Ethan?" asked Fanny.

"As true as you live, one of them hosses is 'Whiteskin,'" replied he, alluding to one of Mr. Grant's animals.

"One of the Indian horses?"

"Yes; as true as you live! I kin see the old scar on his flank."

"Where could the Indians get him?"

"That's what I want to know," continued Ethan, now so much excited that he could not think of his milking. "Creation hokee!" he added—his usual expression when extraordinarily excited.

"What is it?"

"Creation hokee!" repeated Ethan.

"What do you see, Ethan?" demanded Fanny, who was now so much interested that she abandoned her occupation.

"There's the t'other hoss!" replied Ethan. "They've got both on 'em."

"Where could they get them?" said Fanny, who regarded the fact indicated by her companion as sufficiently ominous to excite her alarm.

"That's what I'd like to hev some 'un tell me. Fanny, I tell you sunthin' hes happened."

At this moment a shrill and terrible scream was heard in the direction of the house, followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. Ethan and Fanny, appalled by the sounds, looked towards the house. They saw Mrs. Grant rush from the back door, and then fall upon the ground. Two or three Indians followed her, in one of whom Fanny recognized Lean Bear, the stalwart chief she had endeavored to conciliate. He bent over the prostrate form of the woman, was seen to strike several blows with his tomahawk, and then to use his terrible scalping-knife.

At the sound of the rifle, which seemed to be a signal for the purpose, the savages who had grouped together outside of the house rushed in, yelling and hooting like demons.

"Creation hokee!" gasped Ethan, his face as nearly white as its sun-browned hue would permit.

Fanny's blood was chilled in her veins; she could not speak, and her limbs seemed to be paralyzed. And now in the distance harsh and discordant sounds rose on the still morning air. They came from the direction of the other portions of the settlement. The shrill screams of women, the hoarse cries of men, and the unearthly yells of the savages, mingled in horrible confusion. It was evident to the appalled listeners that a fearful Indian massacre had commenced. They had seen Mrs. Grant fall; had seen the fierce Lean Bear tomahawk and scalp her.

It was madness to stand still in the midst of so much peril, but both Ethan and Fanny seemed to be chained to the spot where they stood, fascinated, as it were, by the anguished cries of agony and death that were borne to their revolting senses by the airs of that summer morning. The savages were at that moment busy in ransacking and plundering the house, but Fanny realized that she might be the next victim; that the tomahawk of the terrible Lean Bear might be glaring above her head in a few moments more. She trembled like an aspen leaf in the extremity of her terror, as she heard the terrific cries uttered by the mangled, mutilated, dying men, women, and children, far enough off to be but faintly heard, yet near enough to be horribly distinct.

"It's time sunthin' was did," said Ethan, with quivering lips.

"What can we do?" asked Fanny, in a husky whisper.

"We must git out of sight fust. Come along with me, Fanny," added Ethan, as he led the way into the barn.

"They will find us here," said Fanny.

"P'rhaps they will; but there ain't nowhere else to go to."

"Why not run away as fast as we can?"

"We kin run, but I reckon bullets will travel faster 'n we kin."

Ethan went up a ladder to the top of the hay-mow, and Fanny followed him. He carried up with him a small hay-fork, with which he went vigorously to work in burrowing out a hole in the hay. Fanny assisted him with her hands, and in a few moments they had made an aperture deep enough to accommodate them. This hiding-place had been made in the back part of the mow, next to the side of the barn, where there were wide cracks between the boards, through which they could receive air enough to prevent them from being stifled.

"Now, you get in, Fanny, and I'll fix the hay so I kin tumble it all down on top on us, and bury us up."

"Suppose they should set the barn afire," suggested Fanny.

"Then they will; we must take our chances, such as they be. We hain't got much chance nohow."

Fanny stepped down into the hole; Ethan followed her, and pulled the mass of hay over so that it fell upon them. They were four or five feet below the surface of the hay.

"I would rather be killed by a bullet than burned to death in the fire," said Fanny, with a shudder, when her companion had adjusted the hay so as to afford them the best possible means of concealment.

"P'rhaps they wouldn't kill you with a bullet. Them redskins is awful creeturs. They might hack you all to pieces with their knives and tomahawks," whispered Ethan.

"It's horrible!" added Fanny, quivering with emotion.

"I've hearn tell that there was some trouble with the redskins up on to the reserves; and I knowed sunthin' had happened when I see them two hosses. I was kind o' skeery when the varmints rid up to the house."

"Do you suppose they have killed my uncle?" asked Fanny, sick at heart.

"I s'pose they hev," answered Ethan, gloomily. "I reckon we'd better keep still, and not say nothin'. Some o' the redskins may be lookin' for us. They're pesky cunnin'."

This was good advice, and Fanny needed no persuasion to induce her to follow it. Through the cracks in the side of the barn she could see a few houses of the settlement; and through these apertures came also the hideous sounds which denoted the progress of the massacre. Great piles of curling smoke were rising from the burning buildings of the devoted settlers, and the work of murder and pillage still continued, as the relentless savages passed from place to place in the execution of their diabolical mission.

The greater part of the detachment which had halted at the house of Mr. Grant had now departed, though the sounds which came from the dwelling indicated that the rest were still there. Lean Bear knew the members of Mr. Grant's household. With his own hand he had slain the woman who had so often fed him, and ministered to his necessities, thus belying the traditional character of his race; and it was not probable that he would abandon his object without a diligent search for the missing members of the family.

Fanny was safe for the present moment, but the next instant might doom her to a violent death, to cruel torture, or to a captivity more to be dreaded than either death or torture. She trembled with mortal fear, and dreaded the revelations of each new second of time with an intensity of horror which cannot be understood or described.

"They are comin' out of the house," said Ethan, in a tremulous whisper. "There's seven on 'em."

"Are they coming this way?"

"No; they are lookin' round arter us. They are going down to the lake."

"I hope they won't come here."

"But they will kim here, as sure as you live."

"Do you ever pray, Ethan?" asked Fanny, impressively.

"Not much," replied he, evasively.

"Let us pray to God. He can help us, and He will, if we ask Him in the right spirit."

"I dunno how," added Ethan.

"I will pray for both of us. The Indians can't hear us now, but God can."

Fanny, in a whisper, uttered a brief and heart-felt prayer for protection and safety from the savage monsters who were thirsting for their blood. She prayed earnestly, and never before had her supplications come so directly from her heart. She pleaded for herself and for her companion, and the good Father seemed to be very near to her as she poured forth her simple petition.

"Thy will, not ours, be done," she murmured, as she thought that it might not be the purpose of "Him who doeth all things well" to save them from the tomahawk of the Indians. If it was not His will that they should pass in safety through this ordeal of blood, she asked that they might be happy in death, or submissive to whatever fate was in store for them.

Ethan listened to the prayer, and seemed to join earnestly in the petitions it contained. With his more devout companion, he felt that God was able to save them, to blunt the edges of the weapons raised to destroy them, or to transform their savage and bitter foes into the warmest and truest of friends.

"I feel better," said Fanny, after a moment of silence at the conclusion of the prayer.

"So do I," replied Ethan, whose altered look and more resolute tones confirmed his words. "I feel like I could fight some o' them Injins."

"We can do nothing by resistance."

"I dunno; if they don't burn the house, I reckon I know whar to find some shootin' fixin's."

"Where?"

"Mr. Grant sort o' hid his rifle and things, for fear some un might steal 'em, I s'pose. I know where they be; and I reckon them redskins won't find 'em."

"Let us not think of resistance. There must be hundreds of Indians at the settlement."

"'Sh!" said Ethan, impressively. "They're comin'."

The light step of the moccasoned feet of the savages was now distinctly heard in the barn. Their guttural jargon grated harshly on the ears of the fugitives in their concealment, as they tremblingly waited the issue.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE INDIAN BOY.

Above the voices of the other savages, the harsh and heavy tones of Lean Bear were prominent. He spoke in the Indian dialect, and of course the anxious fugitives could not understand what he said; but he seemed to be angry and impatient, disappointed and chagrined; and Ethan and Fanny readily inferred that, as he was searching for them, he was the more ferocious because he could not find them. They lay silent and motionless in their hiding-place, hardly daring to breathe, lest a sound should reach the quick ears of their relentless foes.

The Indians searched in every nook and cranny of the barn where a human being could possibly be concealed. They climbed to the top of the mow, pulled over the hay, jumped upon it, and thrust their knives deep down. The fugitives felt the weight of the pursuers pressing heavily down upon them; they realized that the points of the bloody knives were within a short distance of their vital organs; but, breathless and silent, they lay in the most agonizing suspense, expecting to be dragged from their retreat, and subjected to atrocities which it froze their blood to think of.

The remorseless miscreants howled with disappointed rage as the search was abandoned. Fanny and Ethan drew a long sigh of relief when they heard their foes on the floor beneath them. The good Father to whom they prayed so earnestly had dimmed the eyes of the savages so that they could not see, and the danger of that terrible moment passed by them. Fanny breathed her thanks to God for her safety—she did not dare to speak them.

The savages consulted together, using brief, sharp, and exciting sentences. Their words were not understood, and no clew to their future purposes could be obtained. Lean Bear spoke in tones even more savage than he had used before, and the steps of the Indians were heard as they left the barn.

"Hev they gone?" asked Ethan, in a convulsive whisper.

"Yes, I think they have," replied Fanny, in a tone not less agitated. "Let us thank God that we are still safe."

"Don't whistle till you get out o' the woods," added Ethan, who referred, not to the thanks, but to the exultation which his companion appeared to feel at their apparent safety.

"We must be thankful and submissive, Ethan. We have been saved this time, whatever may happen next."

"I am thankful."

"I know you are. We must trust in our Father in heaven if we expect him to hear our prayer."

"'Sh!" interposed Ethan, as he became silent and motionless again.

The voices of the Indians were heard near the barn again, and other moments of agonizing suspense were in store for the fugitives. The gruff tones of Lean Bear rose above those of his companions, and it was evident that they had not yet given up the search.

"Ho, ho, ho! He, he, he!" yelled the monsters, which cries were to them expressions of satisfaction.

It was painfully clear to Ethan and Fanny that the Indians had made some important discovery, or done some act which would accomplish their purpose. More agonizing than the thought came the reality, a few moments afterwards, while the wretches outside of the barn were still shouting their hideous yells. A smell of smoke, accompanied by a sharp, crackling sound, assured the waiting, trembling couple in the hay-mow that their worst fears were realized. The Indians had set fire to the barn.

"We are lost!" exclaimed Fanny. "They have set fire to the barn!"

"'Sh! Don't say a word," interposed Ethan.

"We shall be burned to death!"

"Don't give up; keep still."

"Keep still?" repeated Fanny, amazed at the self-possession of her companion. "We shall be burned to death in a few minutes."

"Don't say nothin', Fanny."

It was not easy to keep still in that terrible moment of peril, but Ethan seemed to know what he was about, and his coolness and courage acted as inspiration upon his terrified companion. Fanny prayed again, in a hardly audible whisper; but this time, Ethan, though perhaps his heart was with her, was thinking of something else. She felt more calm after her prayer, though the dense smoke and the snapping flames admonished her that death was close at hand. The rough prairie boy looked resolute, and seemed to have conquered his fears. She wondered whether he had discovered any possible avenue of escape, for nothing but the promptings of a strong hope, whether real or delusive, could have produced such a change in his bearing.

"Better be burned up, than butchered by the redskins," said he, at last.

Was this the explanation of his new-born courage? It was a terrible alternative, but Fanny was forced to believe that what he said was true.

"Is there no escape for us?"

"Don'no; whar's the Injins now?"

"I don't hear them," replied Fanny.

"Nuther do I. We must stay here jest as long as we kin."

"But the barn is on fire! If we are going to get out at all, we must do so at once."

"Don't hurry. The fire's all out to t'other end o' the barn. It won't hurt us jest yit," said Ethan, with wonderful coolness. "I s'pose the Injins is in a hurry, and they won't stop no longer'n they want to. Jest as soon as they move off we'll git out."

"How shall we get out after the barn is all in a blaze?"

"That's easy enough. I ain't a bit afeered of the fire, but I am pesky skeered of the Injins."

The confidence of Ethan increased the courage of Fanny. She had more to dread from the Indians than he had, and if he preferred to die by the flames, she ought to be willing to share his fate. She commended her soul and that of her companion to God, and tried to be calm and resolute, and she succeeded to an extent which astonished herself.

The fire was rapidly leaping upward, and the barn was soon enveloped in flames. The Indians could not now be seen through the cracks, nor could their voices be heard, and the fire-besieged fugitives supposed they had gone to new fields of blood and rapine.

"We can't stand it much longer—kin we?" said Ethan, as they heard the crash of some falling timbers at the other end of the building.

"We are not burned yet, but I am nearly suffocated by the smoke," replied Fanny. "Do you suppose the Indians are gone?"

"I reckon they be; but they hain't gone fur yit," added Ethan, as he applied his shoulder to one of the boards on the side of the barn.

"Let me help you," said Fanny.

"You ain't nothin' but a gal, and you can't do much," replied Ethan.

He was a stout boy, and the board, only slightly nailed, gave way before the pressure he applied to it; but it required a great deal of labor to detach it from the timbers above and below. He had not begun this work a moment too soon, for the flames were sweeping over the surface of the mow, and the roof was falling in upon them. The barn was stored full of new hay, which, being partially green, did not burn very readily, especially the solid masses of it. The heat was intense, and nothing but a greater peril without could have forced them to remain so long in the building.

The first board was removed, and then a second, leaving an opening wide enough for them to get out. They were about fifteen feet above the level of the ground, but there was no difficulty, even to Fanny, in the descent, though some young ladies might have regarded this minor obstacle as one of some importance. Ethan thrust his head out at the aperture, and looked in every direction his position commanded a view of, in search of the Indians, but none of them were in sight.

"Be quick, Ethan, or the fire will be upon us," said Fanny, who began to feel the near approach of the flames above her.

"Where shall we go when we get out? We must understand matters a leetle grain aforehand."

"I think we had better go down to the lake. We can take the boat and go over to the island."

"That's fust rate," replied Ethan, with enthusiasm. "The Injins hain't got no boats, and can't foller us. Now we'll go down; but be keerful. It would be miser'ble to break your neck here, arter gittin' clear of the fire and the Injins both."

Ethan descended, holding on at each side of the aperture with his hands, and thrusting his feet into the solid mass of hay in the mow. Fanny, adopting the same method, also reached the ground in safety.

"'Sh!" said Ethan, as he took her arm. "Run for them bushes!" and he pointed to a little thicket near the barn.

Fanny ran with all her speed to the bushes, and concealed herself behind them. She was immediately followed by Ethan. The barn was now nearly consumed; the portion of the roof which had not before fallen in, now sunk down with a crash upon the masses of burning hay. The lake was beyond the house, which they were obliged to pass in order to reach their destination.

"I s'pose the sooner we start, the sooner we'll git there," said Ethan, after he had carefully surveyed the ground to ascertain if any savages were near.

"I am ready, Ethan. I will do whatever you say."

"We'll go now, then. Foller me, Fanny."

Ethan led the way, but they had hardly emerged from the bushes before they were appalled to find that they were discovered by their savage foes.

"Ho, ho, ho!" yelled the Indians from behind them.

It appeared that Lean Bear and his companions had waited in the vicinity until the burning barn was so far consumed that it was not deemed possible for a human being to remain concealed in it, and then moved off towards another part of the settlement. With watchful eyes behind as well as before them, they had discovered the young fugitives when they left the clump of bushes.

"Ho, ho, ho!" shouted the painted wretches, as they gave chase to Fanny and Ethan.

"Run for the house!" cried Ethan.

"Why not for the lake?" asked Fanny, in an agony of despair.

"They'll ketch you afore you git half way there. Run for the house!"

They were both running with all their might; and Fanny, though against her judgment, directed her steps to the house. As they approached the back door, an Indian boy and a squaw came out of the building, where they had probably been searching for such valuables as might have escaped the hasty observation of the party who had sacked the premises. The boy was apparently about ten years old, and the woman appeared to be his mother.

Fanny, not suspecting any harm from a woman and so young a boy, still ran towards the door, being in advance of Ethan, who was chivalrous enough to place himself in position to cover the retreat of his companion in case of need. To the surprise of Fanny, the squaw placed herself in her path, and attempted to seize her, uttering yells hardly less savage than those of her male companions. The terrified girl paused in her rapid flight till Ethan came up. The resolute fellow had already picked up a heavy cart stake, and when he saw the new and unexpected peril which menaced Fanny, he rushed forward, and though the squaw drew a long knife and stood her ground, he dealt her a heavy blow on the head, which felled her to the ground.

"Run into the house as fast as you kin, Fanny," said Ethan.

She obeyed, and, in doing so, passed the scalped and mutilated form of her aunt, which lay near the door. The sight made her sick at heart, and she had almost fainted under the horror induced by a single glance at the ghastly spectacle. Such might, and probably would be her own fate, for it was hoping against hope to expect any other issue.

She reached the door, and clung to the post for support. Then she saw that Ethan, instead of following her, was pursuing the Indian boy. It was but a short chase, for he immediately overtook the youth, and in spite of his yells, dragged him into the house with him. Ethan seemed then to have a savage spirit, for he handled the boy without mercy, dragging him by the hair of the head, and kicking him to accelerate his movements.

The capture of the young Indian had been witnessed by the whole of the pursuing party, who yelled with renewed vigor when they saw him borne into the house. When they reached the place where the squaw had fallen, they paused. The tall form of Lean Bear was seen bending over her, and it was plain that there was confusion in the counsels of the savages.

"Hold this boy, Fanny," said Ethan, out of breath with the violence of his exertions, as he took from the belt of the little prisoner a small scalping-knife, and offered it to Fanny. "Don't let him go, no-how; stick him ef he don't keep still."

"I can hold him; I don't want the knife," replied she, as she grasped the boy by the arms, bending them back behind him.

Taking her handkerchief, she tied his arms behind him, so that he was powerless to do her any mischief. She then cut off a portion of the clothes line, which hung up in the kitchen, and tied his feet together. In this condition, he was secured to a door. The boy looked cool and savage; he did not cry, and ceased to struggle only when the bonds prevented him from doing so.

"Now we are ready for sunthin'," said Ethan, as he appeared with two guns and a revolver, which he had taken from their place of concealment behind the oven.