arrow-bones.

Very different, as may be supposed, was the effect of those three hoots
upon Rushing River, as he lay on the grass in perfect silence, listening
intently. On hearing the sounds, he sprang up as though an arrow had
pierced him, and for a few moments the furious glare of a baffled savage
gleamed in his dark eyes, as he laid a hand on his tomahawk; but the
action was momentary, and in a short time the look passed away. It was
succeeded by a calm aspect and demeanour, which seemed to indicate a man
devoid of all feeling--good or bad.

"Skipping Rabbit," he said, taking the hand of the child in his, and
patting her head, "you are soon to be with your father--and with
Moonlight. Rushing River goes back to his people. But the skipping one
must not move from this tree till some of her people come to fetch her.
There is danger in moving--perfect safety in sitting still."

He moved as if about to go, but suddenly turned back and kissed the
child. Then he muttered something in a low tone to his companions, and
strode into the dark forest.

Umqua then advanced and gave the little one a tremendous hug. She was
evidently struggling to suppress her feelings, for she could hardly
speak as she said--

"I--I _must_ go, dear child. Rushing River commands. Umqua has no
choice but to obey." She could say no more, but, after another
prolonged hug, ran rapidly away.

Hitherto Eaglenose had stood motionless, looking on, with his arms
folded. Poor boy! he was engaged in the hardest fight that he had yet
experienced in his young life, for had he not for the first time found a
congenial playmate--if we may venture to put it so--and was she not
being torn from him just as he was beginning to understand her value?
He had been trained, however, in a school where contempt of pain and
suffering was inculcated more sternly even than among the Spartans of
old.

"Skipping one," he said, in a low, stern voice, "Eaglenose must leave
you, for his chief commands, but he will laugh and sing no more."

Even through her tears the skipping one could scarce forbear smiling at
the tone in which this was uttered. Fortunately, her face could not be
seen.

"O yes, you will laugh and sing again," she said, "when your nose is
better."

"No, that cannot be," returned the youth, who saw--indeed the child
intended--nothing humorous in the remark. "No, I will never more laugh,
or pull the string of the jumping-jack; but," he added, wi