The Indian woman often entertained him with stories of her ancestors. She spoke of their dexterity in the chase, of their valour in battle. She described their war-dances, and the feathery lightness of their canoes upon the wave. She told of the gravity of their chiefs, the eloquence of their orators, the respect of the young men for those of hoary hairs. She related instances of the firmness of their friendship, and the terror of their revenge.

"Once the whole land was theirs, said she, and no white man dwelt in it, or had discovered it. Now, our race are few and feeble, they are driven away and perish. They leave their fathers' graves, and hide among the forests. The forests fall before the axe of the white man, and they are again driven out, we know not where. No voice asks after them. They fade away like a mist, and are forgotten."

The little boy wept at the plaintive tone in which she spoke of the sorrows of her people, and said, "I will pity and love the Indians, as long as I live." Sometimes, during the long storms of winter, he would tell them of the Bible, in which he had loved to read, and would repeat the hymns and chapters which he had learned at the Sabbath school. And then he regretted that he had not exerted himself to learn more when it was in his power, and that he had ever grieved his teachers. He found that these Indians were not able to read, and said, "Oh that I had now but one of those books, which I used to prize so little when I was at home, and had so many." They listened attentively to all that he said. Sometimes he told them what he had learned of God, and added,

"He is a good God, and a God of truth, but I displeased him when I was disobedient to my parents."

At length, Spring appeared. The heart of little Charles leaped for joy, when he heard the sweet song of the earliest bird. Every morning he rose early, and went forth to see if the grass had not become greener during the night. Every hour, he desired to remind them of the long-treasured promise. But he saw that the men looked grave if he was impatient, and the brow of his Indian mother became each day more sad.

The appointed period arrived. The boat was laden with the products of their industry. All was ready for departure. Charles wept when he was about to take leave of his kind Indian nurse.

"I will go also," said she; and they made room for her in the boat. The bright sun was rising gloriously in the east, as they left the desolate island. Through the whole voyage she held the boy near her, or in her arms, but spoke not. Birds were winging their way over the blue sea, and, after they entered the river, poured forth the clearest melodies from shore and tree, but still she spoke not. There seemed a sorrow at her breast, which made her lip tremble, yet her eye was tearless. Charles refrained to utter the joy which swelled in his bosom, for he saw she was unhappy. He put his arm round her neck, and leaned his head on her shoulder. As evening approached, they drew near the spot, where she understood she must part from him. Then Charles said eagerly to her,

"Oh, go home with me to my father's house. Yes, yes, come all of you with me, my dear, good people, that all of us may thank you together for having saved my life."

"No," she answered sorrowfully: "I could not bear to see thy mother fold thee in her arms, and to know that thou wert mine no more. Since thou hast told me of thy God, and that he listened to prayer, my prayer has been lifted up to Him night and day, that thy heart might find rest in an Indian home. But this is over. Henceforth, my path and my soul are desolate. Yet go thy way, to thy mother, that she may have joy when she rises up in the morning, and at night goes to rest."

Her tears fell down like rain, as she embraced him, and they lifted him upon the bank. And eager as he was to meet his parents, and his beloved sister, he lingered to watch the boat as it glided away. He saw that she raised not her head, nor uncovered her face. He remembered her long and true kindness, and asked God to bless and reward her, as he hastened over the well known space that divided him from his native village.

His heart beat so thick as almost to suffocate him, when he saw his father's roof. It was twilight, and the trees where he used to gather apples, were in full and fragrant bloom. Half breathless, he rushed in at the door. His father was reading in the parlour, and rose coldly to meet him. So changed was his person, and dress, that he did not know his son. But the mother shrieked. She knew the blue eye, that no misery of garb could change. She sprang to embrace him, and fainted. It was a keen anguish to him, that his mother thus should suffer. Little Caroline clung around his neck, and as he kissed her, he whispered "Remember, God sees, and punishes the disobedient." His pale mother lifted up her head, and drew him from his father's arms, upon the bed, beside her. "Father, Mother," said the delighted boy, "forgive me." They both assured him of their love, and his father looking upward said, "My God, I thank thee! for this my son was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found."

Childhood's Piety.

If the meek faith that Jesus taught,
Admission fail to gain
Neath domes with wealth and splendour fraught,
Where dwell a haughty train,

Turn to the humble hearth and see
The Mother's tender care,
Luring the nursling on her knee
To link the words of prayer:

Or to the little bed, where kneels
The child with heaven-raised eye,
And all its guileless soul reveals
To Him who rules the sky;

Where the young babe's first lispings keep
So bright the parents tear,
The "Now, I lay me down to sleep,"
That angels love to hear.

Frank Ludlow.

"It is time Frank and Edward were at home," said Mrs. Ludlow. So she stirred and replenished the fire, for it was a cold winter's evening.

"Mother, you gave them liberty to stay and play after school," said little Eliza.

"Yes, my daughter, but the time is expired. I wish my children to come home at the appointed time, as well as to obey me in all other things. The stars are already shining, and they are not allowed to stay out so late."

"Dear mother, I think I hear their voices now." Little Eliza climbed into a chair, and drawing aside the window-curtain, said joyfully, "O yes, they are just coming into the piazza."

Mrs. Ludlow told her to go to the kitchen, and see that the bread was toasted nice and warm, for their bowls of milk which had been some time ready.

Frank and Edward Ludlow were fine boys, of eleven and nine years old. They returned in high spirits, from their sport on the frozen pond. They hung up their skates in the proper place, and then hastened to kiss their mother.

"We have stayed longer at play than we ought, my dear mother," said Edward.

"You are nearly an hour beyond the time," said Mrs. Ludlow.

"Edward reminded me twice," said Frank, "that we ought to go home. But O, it was such excellent skating, that I could not help going round the pond a few times more. We left all the boys there when we came away. The next time, we will try to be as true as the town-clock. And it is not Edward's fault now, mother."

"My sons, I always expect you to leave your sports, at the time that I appoint. I know that you do not intend to disobey, or