"But we canna' leave these here to their
lane," said Angus.

"We maun leave them; we are no' big
enough to bury them; but we'll cover them
ower wi' leaves and the branches o' the pines,
and when we get to the fort, we'll ask the
soldiers to come and make graves for them.
Come wi' me, Angus, dear."

Angus took Douglas's hand, and rose; but
soon staggered and fell, murmuring, "Oh,
brother! I'm sair faint and ill.  I think I am
dying. Stay wi' me a little while, and then
ye may cover us a' up togither and gang
awa'."

"Dinna say sic sorrowfu' things, Angus;
yer no dying, puir laddie; yer but fainting wi'
hunger, and I the same," said Douglas, in a
tone of hopeless despondency.  Just at the
moment, his eye fell on a small hand-basket,
in which the labourers were accustomed to
take their luncheon to the harvest-field.  It
was now lying where the dead had left it,
against a pile of wheat-sheaves, and was
found to contain some fragments of bread and
meat, of which they partook.

Somewhat refreshed, the boys set about
their melancholy duty. They did not attempt
to move the bodies from the positions in
which they had found them; they left little
Archie on his father's breast, and faithful
old Davie with his face hid against his
master's knees.

Douglas took out his pocket-knife to sever
a lock of hair from his father's and his little
brother's heads, for mementos. "Oh! dinna
tak' that lock, Douglas," said Angus, with a
shudder, "did ye na see the bluid on it?"

Alas! it was difficult to find a lock on the
head of either father or child not darkened
and stiffened with gore.

When they had taken the last look, the
last kiss, and had completed their mound of
boughs and leaves, the two children knelt
beside it, and prayed.  Surely the God of the
fatherless was near them.  Better in His
sight, their pious care of the dead, than the
most pompous funeral obsequies: sweeter to
Him, the simple prayer they sobbed into his
ear, than the grandest requiem.

It was nearly noon when the boys left the
little valley, and took their way toward the
fort.  They had first visited the ruins of their
house, and searched around them and the
garden, diligently, but vainly, for any trace
of their mother, and nurse, and sister.  From a
tree in the little orchard, they filled their basket
with apples, and set forth.

They had advanced but a mile or two on
the dark, winding, forest path, when they
heard before them the sound of footsteps and
voices.  In their sudden terror, thinking only
of savages, they fled into the thickest recesses
of the wood.  When their alarm had passed,
and they sought to regain the path, they
found to their grief and dismay that they
had lost it.  Still they kept on—apparently
at random—but angel-guided, it seemed, in
the direction of the fort. Yet night came
upon them in the dense, gloomy wood; and,
at last, very weary and sorrowful, they sank
down, murmured their broken prayers, and
clasped in each other's arms fell into a chill
and troubled sleep.

Douglas was wakened in the early morning,
by a touch on his shoulder.  He sprang
to his feet, and confronted—Brant!  Behind
the chief stood a small band of savage
attendants, eagerly eyeing the young "pale-
faces," as though their fingers itched to be
among their curls.

"Who are you? " asked the warrior,
sternly.

"I am Douglas Lindsay; and this is my
brother, Angus Lindsay."

"Is Captain Lindsay your father ? "

"He was our father," replied Douglas with
a passionate burst of tears; "but ye ken
weel enough we hae no father noo, sin' ye've
murdered him.  Ay, and puir auld Davie, and
the wee bairn Archie, ye divils!"

"No, boy," replied Brant, in a not ungentle
tone, "we did not murder your father. I am
sorry to hear he has been killed. He was a
brave man, and never took part with the
rebels. I promised him my protection. It
must have been some of Captain Butler's
men: they are about now. I would have
risked my life to have saved his. I will
protect his children. Where were you
going?"

"To the fort," put in little Angus, eagerly,
"may be we shall find mither and Effie, and
Jenny a' there.  Oh! Mister Thayendenaga,
tak' us to the fort, if it's no' too far, for we
hae lost our way."

Brant—who was an educated man, and
had little of the Indian in his appearance or
speech—smiled to hear himself addressed by
his pompous Indian name (a stroke of policy
on the lad's part), and replied: "That is
easy to do. Cherry Valley is just over the
hill; only a little way off.  Let us go."

Saying this, and briefly commanding his
warriors to remain where they were, until he
should return—an order received in sullen
silence by the savages, who glared ferociously
upon their lost prey—the chief strode
forward through the forest, followed by the two
boys.  When they reached the brow of the
hill overlooking the settlement, he paused
and said, "I had better not go any further.
I will wait here till I see you safe.  Good bye!
Tell your mother that Brant did not kill her
brave husband. Say he's sorry about it—go."

The children sought to express their
thanks, but he waved them away, and stood
with folded arms under the shade of a
gigantic oak, watching them as they descended
the hill.

Mrs. Lindsay's part in the sad story is
soon told.  On the day of the massacre she
heard the firing in the harvest-field, and,
from the windows of the house, witnessed