of all the many
sad things she knew. She knew a wondrous number of things insatiably sad
and wild; and the quiet way in which she told them (not only without any
horror, but as if they were rightly to be expected), also the deep and
rather guttural tone of voice, and the stillness of the form, made it
impossible to help believing verily every word she said.

That there should be in the world such things, so dark, unjust, and
full of woe, was enough to puzzle a child brought up among the noblest
philosophers; whereas I had simply been educated by good unpretentious
women, who had partly retired from the world, but not to such a depth as
to drown all thought of what was left behind them. These were ready at
any time to return upon good opportunity; and some of them had done so,
with many tears, when they came into property.

"Please to tell me no more now," I said at last to Suan; "my eyes are
so sore they will be quite red, and perhaps Uncle Sam will come home
to-night. I am afraid he has found some trouble with the money, or he
ought to have been at home before. Don't you think so, Suan?"

"Yes, yes; trouble with the money. Always with the white mans that."

"Very well. I shall go and look for some money. I had a most wonderful
dream last night. Only I must go quite alone. You had better go and look
to the larder, Suan. If they come, they are sure to be hungry."

"Yes, yes; the white mans always hungry, sep when thirsty."

The Indian woman, who had in her heart a general contempt for the white
race, save those of our own household, drew her bright-colored shawl
around her, and set off with her peculiar walk. Her walk was not
ungraceful, because it was so purely natural; but it differed almost as
much as the step of a quadruped from what we are taught. I, with heavy
thoughts but careless steps, set off on my wanderings. I wanted to try
to have no set purpose, course, or consideration, but to go wherever
chance should lead me, without choice, as in my dream. And after many
vague turns, and even closings of rebellious eyes, I found myself,
perhaps by the force of habit, at the ruins of the mill.

I seemed to recognize some resemblance (which is as much as one can
expect) to the scene which had been in my sleep before me. But sleeping
I had seen roaring torrents; waking, I beheld a quiet stream. The little
river, as blue as ever, and shrinking from all thoughts of wrath, showed
nothing in its pure gaze now but a gladn