hat your life would not have
weighed with you if its sacrifice could have done me good. She will
marry you after she has mourned a little while for her father; and
Heaven grant you long and happy days, and may your children's children
stand round your death bed! And, Reuben," added he, as the weakness of
mortality made its way at last, "return, when your wounds are healed
and your weariness refreshed,--return to this wild rock, and lay my
bones in the grave, and say a prayer over them."

An almost superstitious regard, arising perhaps from the customs of the
Indians, whose war was with the dead as well as the living, was paid by
the frontier inhabitants to the rites of sepulture; and there are many
instances of the sacrifice of life in the attempt to bury those who had
fallen by the "sword of the wilderness." Reuben, therefore, felt the
full importance of the promise which he most solemnly made to return
and perform Roger Malvin's obsequies. It was remarkable that the
latter, speaking his whole heart in his parting words, no longer
endeavored to persuade the youth that even the speediest succor might
avail to the preservation of his life. Reuben was internally convinced
that he should see Malvin's living face no more. His generous nature
would fain have delayed him, at whatever risk, till the dying scene
were past; but the desire of existence and the hope of happiness had
strengthened in his heart, and he was unable to resist them.

"It is enough," said Roger Malvin, having listened to Reuben's promise.
"Go, and God speed you!"

The youth pressed his hand in silence, turned, and was departing. His
slow and faltering steps, however, had borne him but a little way
before Malvin's voice recalled him.

"Reuben, Reuben," said he, faintly; and Reuben returned and knelt down
by the dying man.

"Raise me, and let me lean against the rock," was his last request. "My
face will be turned towards home, and I shall see you a moment longer
as you pass among the trees."

Reuben, having made the desired alteration in his companion's posture,
again began his solitary pilgrimage. He walked more hastily at first
than was consistent with his strength; for a sort of guilty feeling,
which sometimes torments men in their most justifiable acts, caused him
to seek concealment from Malvin's eyes; but after he had trodden far
upon the rustling forest leaves he crept back, impelled by a wild and
painful curiosity, and, sheltered by the eart