th feelings of gratitude to
God for having delivered them alike from savage foes and from the
destructive power of the whirlwind, resumed their journey towards the
Mustang Valley.

CHAPTER XXVI.

_Anxious fears followed by a joyful surprise--Safe home at last, and
happy hearts_.

One fine afternoon, a few weeks after the storm of which we have given
an account in the last chapter, old Mrs. Varley was seated beside her
own chimney corner in the little cottage by the lake, gazing at the
glowing logs with the earnest expression of one whose thoughts were
far away. Her kind face was paler than usual, and her hands rested
idly on her knee, grasping the knitting-wires to which was attached a
half-finished stocking.

On a stool near to her sat young Marston, the lad to whom, on the day
of the shooting-match, Dick Varley had given his old rifle. The boy
had an anxious look about him, as he lifted his eyes from time to time
to the widow's face.

"Did ye say, my boy, that they were _all_ killed?" inquired Mrs.
Varley, awaking from her reverie with a deep sigh.

"Every one," replied Marston. "Jim Scraggs, who brought the news, said
they wos all lying dead with their scalps off. They wos a party o'
white men."

Mrs. Varley sighed again, and her face assumed an expression of
anxious pain as she thought of her son Dick being exposed to a similar
fate. Mrs. Varley was not given to nervous fears, but as she listened
to the boy's recital of the slaughter of a party of white men, news
of which had just reached the valley, her heart sank, and she prayed
inwardly to Him who is the husband of the widow that her dear one
might be protected from the ruthless hand of the savage.

After a short pause, during which young Marston fidgeted about and
looked concerned, as if he had something to say which he would fain
leave unsaid, Mrs. Varley continued,--

"Was it far off where the bloody deed was done?"

"Yes; three weeks off, I believe. And Jim Scraggs said that he found
a knife that looked like the one wot belonged to--to--" the lad
hesitated.

"To whom, my boy? Why don't ye go on?"

"To your son Dick."

The widow's hands dropped by her side, and she would have fallen had
not Marston caught her.

"O mother dear, don't take on like that!" he cried, smoothing down the
widow's hair as her head rested on his breast.

For some time Mrs. Varley suffered the boy to fondle her in silence,
while her breast laboured with anxi