wish to be so encumbered, and hurried away.

Just as they were passing from the clearing
into the little cow-path leading through the
woods to the creek, Angus looked back and
saw the child standing by his father, in tears,
gazing wistfully after his elder brothers.

"Ah, Douglas," exclaimed he, "let us tak'
Archie wi' us. See how the puir bairn is
greeting."

"No, no; he'll only fright the trout, and
we canna wait. Come awa."

The lads reached the creek in safety, crept
stealthily along its shaded bank, selected their
places in silence, and flung their bait upon
the water.  Douglas seemed to enjoy the sport
keenly, but Angus was remorseful for having
said nay to his little brother's entreaty.

"Oh, Douglas!" he exclaimed, at last, "I
canna forget Archie's tearfu', wistfu' face.
I'm sae sorry we left him!"

"Dinna fash yer head about Archie, but
mind yer fish!" replied Douglas impatiently.

Angus was silent for another half-hour.
Then he suddenly gave a short, quick cry,
made a start forward, and peered anxiously
down into the water.

"What noo?" said Douglas petulantly,
for the cry and movement had scared a fine
trout that seemed just about to take his hook.

"Oh, brother," answered Angus, trembling,
"I ha' seen Archie's bonnie face in the burn,
and it had sic a pale, frightened look. I doubt
something awfu' has happened!
Let us gang hame."

Douglas laughed as he replied, "It's yer
own face ye saw in the burn, and no Archie's.
How could it be his, when he's maist twa mile
awa?"

"I dinna ken, Douglas," replied Angus,
humbly, "but I maun believe it was Archie's
face.  There it comes again!  And father's,
and Davie's! Oh, brother, the Indians!"

Shrieking out these words, the poor boy
staggered backward and fainted.  Douglas,
though a good deal alarmed, had sufficient
presence of mind to apply nature's remedy,
fortunately near at hand; and under a copious
sprinkling of cold water, Angus speedily
revived.  Douglas no longer resisted his
entreaties, but silently gathering up their
fishing tackle, and taking their string of trout,
set out for home, walking slowly, and supporting
the trembling steps of his brother.
As they neared the borders of the clearing,
where they were to come in sight of the
harvest-fields and their home, Angus
absolutely shook, and even the cheek of the bold
Douglas grew white.

The first sight which met their eyes, on
their emerging from the wood, was their
house in flames, with a party of fiendish
savages dancing and howling around it.  The
boys shrank back into the wood; and, crouching
down together beneath a thick growth of
underbrush, lay sobbing and shuddering in
their grief and terror.

At length, Angus gave a start and
whispered joyfully, "Oh, brother, I've seen mither,
and wee Effie, and Jenny—an' they're a' safe
—hid away in the bushes, like us."

"But do you see father, and Archie, and
auld Davie?" asked Douglas, believing, at
last, in the second-sight of his young brother.

"No, no," replied Angus, mournfully, "I
canna see them ony mair. They maun be a'
dead, Douglas."

"I'll no believe that," said the elder
brother, proudly; "father and Davy baith
had their arms wi' them.  Davie is no' a
bad fighter, and ye ken a braver soldier could
na be found in a' the world than father."

They lay thus, talking in fearful whispers,
and weeping silently, until the shouts of the
savages died away, and silence fell with the
twilight, over the little valley.  Then, slowly
and cautiously they crept from their hiding-
place, and stole through the harvest-fields to
the spot where they had left their father and
little brother, and Davie.

And they were all there—dead.  They
appeared to have fallen together—faithful
old Davie lay across his master's knees, which
he seemed embracing in death.  Little Archie
had evidently lingered longest alive; his flesh
was yet soft and slightly warm, and he had
crept to his father's arms, and lay partly
across his breast.

All, even to the sinless baby, had been
tomahawked.  Yet, bathed in blood, as they
were, the poor boys could not believe them
dead, but clasped their stiffened hands, and
kissed their lips, felt for their heart-beats,
and called them by their names in every
accent of love and sorrow.  At last, finding
all their frenzied efforts vain, they
abandoned themselves utterly to grief.

The moon rose upon them thus—weeping
wildly over their murdered father and brother
—stained with their blood, and shuddering
with their death-chill.  Never did the moon
look on a more desolate group.  Captain
Lindsay's brow seemed more awfully stern
in its light, and his unclosed eyes shone with
an icy gleam.  Archie's still tearful face showed
most piteously sad; while the agonised faces
of the two young mourners, now bent over
their dead, now lifted despairingly toward
heaven, seemed to have grown strangely
old in that time of terror, and horror, and
bitter grieving.  Thus the hours wore on;
and, at last, from utter exhaustion, they slept
—the living with the dead.

They were wakened by the warm sunlight
and the birds who sang—how strange it
seemed!—as gaily as ever, in the neighbouring
wood.  The boys raised their heads and
looked, each into the other's sad face, and
then on the dead, in the blank, speechless
anguish of their renewed grief.  Douglas was
the first to speak. "Come, brother," he said,
in a calm tone, "we maun be men noo, let us
gang back to the fort: may be we shall find
mither there, wi' Jenny and the bairnie, 'gin
you're sure ye saw them a' in yer vision."