tle party across the Mississippi the previous week, and they kept
matters moving in a very lively manner, as the reader learned long ago;
but it was not to be supposed that any of those daring and skillful
warriors were in the neighborhood, for it was not conceivable that a
cause existed for their presence.

But a singular distrust took possession of Deerfoot. He could not
account for it, except as he accounted for all inexplainable things, as
being the direct prompting of the Great Spirit. Many a time the
instinctive belief had come over him, and he had never failed to follow
its guidance; the result in each instance proved that he did right, and
he resolved to do the same in the present case, though it will be seen
that he could take no real step forward until the coming of daylight.

"You will stay here until morning," said Mrs. Carleton, looking into
the face of her visitor and speaking as though the matter was not at all
in the nature of a question.

"Deerfoot may stay awhile, though he would rather sleep in the woods,
where he can breathe the cool, pure air, and look at the stars, and
listen to the whispers of the Great Spirit who watches over him when he
is asleep or awake."

"You can sleep on Jack's bed, and he will be pleased, when he comes
home, to learn that you did so, though he will be sorry that he was not
here to make you welcome."

The Indian shook his head. He had no wish to lie on any such couch, and
he had not done so since he was wounded and a prisoner in the hands of
the white people.

"Deerfoot will sit here and read until he becomes weary; then he will
lie on the floor; and when he awakes he will seek his brothers who are
hunting for the horse that has long been lost."

Mrs. Carleton had been told by Jack how skillfully Deerfoot could read
and write, and she now ventured the hope that he would use the Bible
which lay on the table at the side of the cabin. She was on the point
of rising to get it for him, when he motioned her to keep her seat.

"Deerfoot has his Bible with him."

And then he drew the tiny volume with its wooden covers from the
interior pocket of his hunting-shirt, and shifted his position so that
his back was turned toward the fire, whose glow passed over his
shoulders and fell upon the printed page. This gave him all the light he
needed, and, after rustling the leaves for a moment, he began, in his
low, sweet monotone.

As may be supposed, he selected one of the chapte