evening of the following day, they reached the
trapper's hut, where they were not a little surprised to find Susan. She
told them that, although John Wilton had begged her to live with them,
she could not bear to leave the spot where everything reminded her of
one to think of whom was now her only consolation; and that, while she
had Nero, she feared nothing. They needed not to tell their mournful
tale--Susan already understood it but too clearly. She begged them to
leave the Indian woman with her. "You have no one," said she, "to tend
and watch her as I can do; besides, it is not right that I should lay
such a burden on you." Although unwilling to impose on her mind the
painful task of nursing her husband's murderess, they could not allow
but that she was right; and seeing how earnestly she desired it, at last
consented to leave the Indian woman with her.

For many weeks Susan nursed her charge, as tenderly as if it had been
her sister. At first she lay almost motionless, and rarely spoke; then
she grew delirious, and raved wildly. Susan fortunately could not
understand what she said, but often turned shuddering away, when the
Indian woman would strive to rise from her bed, and move her arms, as if
drawing a bow; or yell wildly, and cower in terror beneath the
clothes--reacting in her delirium the fearful scenes through which she
had passed. By degrees reason returned; she gradually got better, but
seemed restless and unhappy, and could not bear the sight of Nero. The
first proof of returning reason she had shown, was a shriek of terror
when he once accidentally followed his mistress into the room where she
lay. One morning Susan missed her; she searched around the hut, but she
was gone, without having taken farewell of her kind benefactress.

A few years after, Susan Cooper,--no longer "pretty Susan," for time and
grief had done their work--heard, late one night, a hurried knock, which
was repeated several times before she could open the door, each time
more loudly than before. She called to ask who it was at that late hour
of night. A few hurried words in Iroquois was the reply, and Susan
congratulated herself on having spoken before unbarring the door. But,
on listening again, she distinctly heard the same voice say,
"Quick--quick!" and recognized it as the Indian woman's voice she had
nursed. The door was instantly opened, when the squaw rushed into the
hut, seized Susan by the arm, and made signs to her to come a