n upon her bed for
a short nap before the day should break.

CHAPTER IV.

A BRUSH WITH INDIANS.--A BLACK HEART.

"Hello! Let me in, I say. Are you all dead?" and a strong hand shook
the door.

Mrs. Jones rubbed her eyes, for she had overslept herself; and as the
children depended on her to awaken them in the morning, they were
sleeping too. Hastening to the door, she undid the fastening, and her
husband entered.

"Is that you, Joseph?" she asked.

"It isn't anybody else, I reckon," he gruffly answered; "but where
shall I put this?" taking a quarter of venison from his shoulder,
which his wife hung against the wall on a wooden peg.

"I'm glad you've got back, Joseph."

"Well you might be, for you came near never seeing me again."

"I hope you haven't met with any mishap," said the wife, anxiously.

"Nothing to speak of, only a scratch from the bullet of one of them
rascally red-skins."

"Why, you haven't been fighting with the Indians--have you?"

"Not exactly," he answered; "I've always treated them well; but after
this, if any of 'em get in my way, I shall pop at 'em before they do
at me; that's all."

"But how did they happen to shoot at you?" asked Mrs. Jones.

"Well," said her husband, "just give me something to put on my side,
for it's a grain sore after my long tramp, and cook us a venison
steak, and I'll tell you all about it;" and Mr. Jones, pulling open
his hunting-shirt, showed an ugly-looking flesh wound in his side.

"Dear me, Joseph, you _are_ hurt," said the wife, as she carefully
bandaged it, putting on a simple salve, which she always kept on hand
for family use. "You look tired and pale--bringing home such a load,
and bleeding all the way. Sit down, and I'll get you something to eat
directly."

Scarcely had he seated himself, when there was a cry of pain from Tom,
and Bub came tumbling head first upon the floor; for, having seen his
father, he had scrambled, without ceremony, across Tom's sore face,
and receiving a push from the latter, landed upon his nose.

By this time the rest of the children were awake, and shouting, "Dad's
come home!" while Bub bellowed at the top of his lungs, "My nose
beeds! my nose beeds!"

"O, no, it don't," replied his mother, soothingly.

"Well, it feels _wed_, it does!" he answered, determined to be
pitied.

This remark elicited peals of laughter from his brothers and sisters,
which Bub taking as insults, he roared the louder.

"Children