head struck Mr. Michst with full
force in the neighborhood of the diaphragm, and the two went down on
the floor with a crash. Mr. Margent, the first to recover his presence
of mind, stepped over the extended toes of Miss Slopham, who had
simply dropped into a chair in a dead faint, firmly seized the
Indian's right hand, in which the knife was held, and putting his
other hand on the Indian's shoulder, gently and easily tripped him up,
and when he had got him down sat on his prostrate form. It had hardly
been done when a dark little man slipped into the room, cast a swift
glance around, and without stopping to look his astonishment, in a
flash locked a pair of handcuffs on Ogla-Moga's wrists. In the hall
outside was a vision of two policemen.

Mr. Margent, without betraying the least surprise, slowly got up,
pulled a toothpick out of his pocket, and began to use it, while he
looked down upon the Indian. "What's he done?" he asked, coolly.

"Oh, all sorts of things: killed a missionary; poured a can of
kerosene on his squaw, and tried to set her on fire, because he wanted
to take another one; and so on. The worst Kickapoo of the lot. I've
had hard work to find him; but," with a grin, "I never expected to
find him in a place like this."

Ogla-Moga had fallen asleep then and there! The harsh music of his
snore filled the room. To several persons present it had a familiar
sound. Professor Phyle, who had stuck his head out of the curtains,
drew it in again suddenly, like the timid turtle.

"Poor Ogla-Moga!" said Miss Slopham, who had recovered, and had been
listening. "What else could be expected under a cruel and despotic
government?"

"Ogla-Moga? Yes, ma'am, that's his name among the tribe. I'm the
agent's deputy. We called him Ugly-Mug, and that was the way the
Indians pronounced it. It _is_ ugly, you see, ma'am."

It _was_ ugly. It was the last blow. Miss Slopham said not another
word, and, strange to say, Mr. Blagg never mentioned these interesting
incidents in his correspondence.

A MEMORABLE MURDER.

BY CELIA THAXTER.

_Atlantic Monthly, May, 1875._

At the Isles of Shoals, on the 5th of March in the year 1873, occurred
one of the most monstrous tragedies ever enacted on this planet. The
sickening details of the double murder are well known; the newspapers
teemed with them for months: but the pathos of the story is not
realized; the world does not know how gentle a life these poor people
led, how i