as smiling at my despair. The hideous wretch came running with
the fire-brand. The braves leaped, danced, and whooped.

I closed my eyes. Then a sharp, shrill yell pierced the air, and in
another moment something touched my neck. It was not the scorching
flames I dreaded. I opened my eyes. A hideous face, copper-colored,
distorted by a loving grin, was close to mine; a pair of arms were
about my neck--a pair of woman's arms! They were those of a ferocious
and ugly squaw, old enough to be my mother. The warrior with the
fire-brand was replacing it, with a disappointed expression, under the
stewed dog. _I was saved!_

All in a flash I comprehended the truth. Here was I, John Flutter,
enacting the historical part of the John Smith, of Virginia, who was
rescued by the lovely Pocahontas.

This hideous creature smirking in my face was my Pocahontas. It was
not leap-year, but she had chosen me for her brave. The charms of
civilized life could no longer trouble me. She would lovingly paint my
face, hang the wampum about my waist, and lead me to her wigwam in the
wilderness, where she would faithfully grind my corn and fricassee my
puppy. It was for _this_ I had escaped Sally Spitfire--for _this_ that
my unhappy bashfulness had driven me far from home and friends.

She unfastened the rope from the stake, and led me proudly away. My
very soul blushed with shame. Oh, fatal, fatal blunder!

CHAPTER XIV.

HIS DIFFIDENCE BRINGS ABOUT AN ACCIDENT.

That was a long day for me. I could not eat the dog-bone which my
Pocahontas handed me, having drawn it from the kettle with her own
sweet fingers. We traveled all day; having lost their stolen horses as
well as their own ponies, the savages had to foot it back to their
tribe. I could see that they got as far away from the railroad and
from traces of white men as possible.

It began to grow dark, and we were still plodding along. I was
foot-sore, discouraged, and woe-begone. All the former trials of my
life, which had seemed at the time so hard to bear, now appeared like
the merest trifles.

Ah, if I were only home again! How gladly would I sit down in
butter-tubs, and spill hot tea into my lap! How joyfully would I walk
up the church aisles, with my ears burning, and sit down on my new
beaver in father's pew of a Sunday. How sweet would be the suppressed
giggle of the saucy girls behind me! How easily, how almost
audaciously, would I ask Miss Miller if I might see her ho