of
red people whom Mr. Eliot had begun to civilize, was scattered, and
probably never was restored to a flourishing condition. But his zeal did
not grow cold; and only about five years before his death he took great
pains in preparing a new edition of the Indian Bible."

"I do wish Grandfather," cried Charley, "you would tell us all about the
battles in King Philip's war."

"O, no!" exclaimed Clara. "Who wants to hear about tomahawks and scalping
knives!"

"No, Charley," replied Grandfather, "I have no time to spare in talking
about battles. You must be content with knowing that it was the bloodiest
war that the Indians had ever waged against the white men; and that, at
its close, the English set King Philip's head upon a pole."

"Who was the captain of the English?" asked Charley.

"Their most noted captain was Benjamin Church,--a very famous warrior,"
said Grandfather. "But I assure you, Charley, that neither Captain Church,
nor any of the officers and soldiers who fought in King Philip's war, did
any thing a thousandth part so glorious, as Mr. Eliot did, when he
translated the Bible for the Indians."

"Let Laurence be the apostle," said Charley to himself, "and I will be the
captain."

Chapter IX

The children were now accustomed to assemble round Grandfather's chair, at
all their unoccupied moments; and often it was a striking picture to
behold the white-headed old sire, with this flowery wreath of young people
around him. When he talked to them, it was the past speaking to the
present,--or rather to the future, for the children were of a generation
which had not become actual. Their part in life, thus far, was only to be
happy, and to draw knowledge from a thousand sources. As yet, it was not
their time to do.

Sometimes, as Grandfather gazed at their fair, unworldly countenances, a
mist of tears bedimmed his spectacles. He almost regretted that it was
necessary for them to know any thing of the past, or to provide aught for
the future. He could have wished that they might be always the happy,
youthful creatures, who had hitherto sported around his chair, without
inquiring whether it had a history. It grieved him to think that his
little Alice, who was a flower-bud fresh from paradise, must open her
leaves to the rough breezes of the world, or ever open them in any clime.
So sweet a child she was, that it seemed fit her infancy should be
immortal!

But such repinings were merely flitting shadow