fortunes, falls into an alarming state of weakness and disorder. Her lover suddenly presents himself before her."Emily tried to smile. It is too late,' she said, and fainted. Lord De-Calmer could not move to assist her: he felt as if an ice-bolt had fallen on his heart. He drew a long breath when she recovered, as if he would have shaken off the weight from his soul. What would he not have given to recall the days that were past! only a few months! but it could not be; and the words continued still to ring in his ears-It is too late! Yet the next day his heart again opened to hope, and for many ensuing ones he cherished the belief that Emily would recover. Her eye was no longer heavy and starless, nor her sunken cheek so pale; she smiled, too, often; and he thought that, in her loveliest days, he had never seen that smile so beautiful.

"When she found him bent on a renewal of his addresses, and proposing future plans, she said, 'Are you wise, to look so obstinately to a future that may never be ours? Let us enjoy the present, of which alone we are sure: why should we dwell on gloomy images? I am happy -will you not be so?'-I do not understand you, my dearest Emily: to me there is no gloom in our union, nor can I be quite happy till you are wholly mine.'

"Emily's fine face was overcast.'Look!' said she, as she held her transparent hand before the light, would you wed Death?'-'Oh, talk not so, my beloved! Think how young you are, how much better you are looking, how dear you are to me--you must live.'-'It is not at my option, De-Calmer: the thread has long spun thin; but I will not complain, for it has not broken in grief.'

Emily!' said her lover, in the low suffocated tone of anguish, do not tell me I killed you.'-'We will not talk of the past,' said Emily, affectionately: 'I have had various sorrows; but they hang light on me now-for they are nearly over. I would rather bless than reproach you, for your presence is to me the last warm light of departing day. If you felt how sweet it is to be beloved, you would not pity me.'

On another occasion, in the evening, he "thought something flitted past him; he looked up, and, though he saw nothing, the conviction was still strong upon him, that something was near. Nothing was discernible at a distance; but, as his eye took a narrower circuit, he almost

smiled at perceiving he had overlooked Emily. She stood close behind him, and never had he seen an earthly form like that. She was robed in a loose drapery of white, which seemed to hang from her as if it enshrined only a spirit, and floated far on the air. Her beautiful hair carelessly gathered up, and entwined with white roses, seemed scarcely more tangible than her figure. De-Calmer well remembered that white garland, for he had chosen it for Emily at a very early stage of their acquaintance; he had placed it on her brows, and said, that, when he wished to personify innocence, he would paint Miss Montresor, in that simple head-dress. With a superstitious feeling of anxiety, amounting to dread, did he ask himself, why she wore the roses now. But he had not courage to give his thoughts utterance, and soon they were lost in wonder at her uncommon cheerfulness. She spoke on almost every subject they had ever been in the habit of discussing, but with a force of eloquence, a rich vein of humor, that her natural diffidence had hitherto restrained. Still he was uneasy; he watched the deep glow of her cheek, the restless wandering of her eye, until he even fancied something ominous in her luminous smile. It grew late, but she did not seem to heed it; at last, almost starting as he made her mark the bright moon-beams shoot long slanting rays through the casement into the apartment where they sat, she took out a letter, and gave it to him. It was for Isabella. If,' said she, 'you would do me a real service, and remove a heavy weight off my mind, you will deliver this yourself.'-'If,' replied he, 'you dislike trusting it to the post, let me, at least, send my servant. He is deserving of confidence, and it is hard to banish me for a letter !'-'Have you ever seen me capricious?' said she, solemnly; and will you refuse me the first request I ever made you?'-'No; I will refuse you nothing; but promise me, when I return, you will grant my request also.'

When you return, I shall oppose you no longer;' and she smiled, but it was a terrific smile which did not inspire confidence. It is bright and clear,' she said, after a short pause; ' and you cannot well miss your way. Let us part now, and to-morrow you will begin your journey?' -Do not doubt me,' answered he; the sooner I go, the sooner I shall return.' Emily softly unbarred the cottage door, and stood in the mild tremulous

with that sort of undefined pleasure which man always feels in awakening strong af fections in the hearts of even the most insignificant. Then the idea, that, though an Indian, she was a princess, led him to think of marriage with her as a desirable object. His eyes and his manner had said this long before the chief began to suspect it, and he allowed the wily Frenchman to twine himself almost as closely around his heart as he had around the more yielding soul of his darling child. Though exceedingly indolent by nature, Florimond had acquired skill in various arts, which excited the wonder of the savages. He fenced well enough to foil the most expert antagonist; and, in hunting, his rifle was sure to carry death to the game. These accomplishments, and the facility with which he conformed to the usages of savage life, made him a general favorite, and he was formally adopted as one of the tribe; yet it was long before he dared to ask for the daughter of the haughty chief. When he did make the daring proposition, it was received with a still and terrible wrath, that might well frighten him from his purpose. Rage showed itself only in the swelling veins and clenched hand of the chief. With the boasted coldness and self-possession of an Indian, he answered, "There are Sioux girls enough for the poor pale faces that come among us. A king's daughter weds the son of a king. Eagles must sleep in an eagle's nest.' In vain Tahmiroo knelt and supplicated. In vain she promised that Florimond would adopt all her father's enmities and all his friendships, and that in hunting and in war he would be a valuable treasure. The chief remained inexorable. Then Tahmiroo no longer joined in the dance, and the old men noticed that her rich voice was silent when they passed her wigwam. The light of her beauty began to fade, and the bright vermilion current which mantled under her brown cheek became sluggish and pale. The languid glance which she cast on the morning sun and the bright earth entered into her father's soul. He could not see his beautiful child thus gradually wasting away. He had long averted his eyes whenever he saw Florimond; but one day, when he crossed his hunting-path, he laid his hand on his shoulder, and pointed to Tahmiroo's dwelling. Not a word was spoken. The chieftain and the lover entered it together. Tahmiroo was seated in the darkest corner of the wigwam, her head leaning

on her hand, her basket-work tangled beside her. The chief looked upon her with a vehement expression of love, which none but stern countenances can wear. "Tahmiroo," he said in a subdued tone, "go to the dwelling of the stranger, that your father may again see you love to look on the rising sun and the opening flowers." Joy and modesty were mingled in the upward glance of the "Startled Fawn" of the Sioux: and when Florimond saw the light of her mild eye suddenly and timidly veiled by its deeply-fringed lid, he knew that he had lost none of his power. The nuptial song was soon heard in the royal wigwam, and the young adventurer became the son-in-law of a king.

Months and years passed on, and found Tahmiroo the same devoted submissive being. Her husband at length ceased to treat her with the gallantry of a lover. He was not often harsh, but he adopted something of the coldness and indifference of the nation he had joined. She sometimes wept in secret; but so much_of fear had lately mingled with her love, that she carefully concealed her grief from him who had occasioned it. When she watched his countenance with that pleading innocent look which had always characterised her beauty, she sometimes would obtain such a glance as he had given her in former days, and then her heart would leap like a frolicsome lamb, and she would live cheerfully on the remembrance of that smile, through many wearisome days of silence and neglect.

Never was woman, in her heart-breaking devotedness, satisfied with such slight testimonials of love as was this gentle girl. If Florimond chose to fish, she would herself ply the oars, rather than he should suffer fatigue; and the gaudy canoe her father had given her, might often be seen gliding down the stream, while she dipped her oars in unison with her soft rich voice, and the indolent Frenchman lay sunk in luxurious repose. She had learned his religion; but for herself she never prayed. The cross he had given her was always raised in supplication for him; and, if he looked unkindly on her, she kissed it, and invoked its aid, in agony of soul. She fancied that the sounds of his native land might be dear to him, and she studied his language with a patience and perseverance to which the savage has seldom been known to submit. She tried to imitate the dresses she had heard him deseribe; and, if he looked with a pleased eye on any ornament she wore, it was

always reserved to welcome his return. For all this lavishness of love, she merely asked kind, approving looks, which cost the giver nothing. How strange is the perverseness of man, in scorning the affection which he ceases to doubt! The pittance of love for which poor Tahmiroo's heart yearned so much, was seldom given. Her soul was a perpetual prey to anxiety and excitement, and the quiet certainty of domestic bliss was never her allotted portion. There were, however, two beings, on whom she could pour forth her whole flood of tenderness, without reproof or disappointment. She had given birth to a son and daughter, of uncommon promise. Victoire, the elder, had her father's beauty, save in the melting dark eye, with its plaintive expression, and the modest drooping of its silken lash. Her cheeks had just enough of the Indian hue to give them a warm rich coloring, and such was her early maturity, that at thirteen years of age her tall figure combined the graceful elasticity of youth with the sedate majesty of womanhood. She had sprung up at her father's feet with the sudden luxuriance of a tropical flower, and her matured loveliness aroused all the dormant tenderness and energy within him. It was with mournful interest that he saw her leaping along the chase, with her mother's bounding, sylph-like joy; and he would sigh deeply when he observed her oar rapidly cutting the waters of the Missouri, while her boat flew over the surface of the river like a wild bird in sport, and the gay young creature would wind round among the eddies, or dart forward, with her hair streaming on the wind, and her lips parted with eagerness. Her mother did not understand the nature of his emotions. She thought, in the simplicity of her heart, that silence and sadness were the natural expressions of a white man's love; but, when he turned his restless gaze from his daughter to her, she met an expression which troubled her. Indifference had changed into contempt; and woman's soul, whether in the drawing-room or the wilderness, is painfully alive to the sting of scorn. Sometimes her placid nature was disturbed by a strange jealousy of her own child. "I love Victoire only because she is the daughter of Florimond," thought she;" and why does he not love me for being the mother of Victoire?" It was too evident that he wished his daughter should be estranged even from her own mother. Cherishing ambitious views for the girl, he resolved to remove her from

the attractions of her savage home; and, to favor his project, he assumed an affectionate manner toward his wife; for he well knew that one look or word of kindness would at any time win back all her love. When the deep sensibilities of her warm heart were roused, he would ask for leave to sell her lands; and she, in her prodigality of tenderness, would have given him any thing, even her own life, for such smiles as he then bestowed. The chief was dead, and there was no one to check the unfeeling rapacity of the French

man.

Tracts after tracts of Tahmiroo's valuable land were sold, and the money remitted to Quebec, whither he had the purpose of conveying his children, on the pretence of a visit, but in reality with the firm intent of never again beholding his deserted wife. A company of Canadian traders happening to visit the Falls of St. Antony at this juncture, he took the opportunity to apprise her of his intention of educating Victoire at one of the convents in Quebec. The Sioux pleaded with all the earnestness of a mother's eloquence; but she pleaded in vain. Victoire and her father joined the company of traders on their return to Canada. Tahmiroo knelt, and fervently besought that she might accompany them. She would stay out of sight, she said; they should not be ashamed of her, among the great white folk at the east; and, if she could but live where she could see them every day, she should die happier. "Ashamed of you! and you the daughter of a Sioux king!" exclaimed Victoire proudly, and, with a natural impulse of tenderness, fell on her mother's neck and wept. "Victoire, it is time to depart!" said her father, sternly. The sobbing girl tried to release herself; but she could not. Tahmiroo embraced her with the energy of despair; for, after all her doubts and jealousies, Victoire was the darling child of her bosom-she was so much the image of Florimond when he first said he loved her. "Woman! let her go!" he exclaimed, exasperated by the length of the parting scene. Tahmiroo raised her eyes anxiously to his face, and she saw that his arm was raised to strike her. "I am a poor daughter of the Sioux; oh! why did you marry me?" exclaimed she, in a tone of passionate grief. "For your father's lands," said the Frenchman, coldly. Poor Tahmiroo with a piercing shriek fell on the earth, and hid her face in the grass. Her highly-wrought feelings had brought on a dizziness, and she was conscious only

of a sensation of sickness, accompanied by the sound of receding voices. When she recovered, she found herself alone with Louis, her little boy, then about six years old. The child had wandered there after the traders had departed, and having in vain tried to awaken his mother, he had laid himself down at her side, and slept on his bow and arrows. From that hour Tahmiroo was changed. Her quiet submissive air gave place to a stern and lofty manner; and she, who had always been so gentle, became as bitter and implacable as the most blood-thirsty of her tribe. In little Louis all the strong feelings of her soul were centred; but even her affection for him was characterised by a strange and unwonted fierceness. Her only care seemed to be to make him like his grandfather, and to instil a deadly hatred of white men ; and the boy learned his les sons well. He was the veriest little savage that ever let fly an arrow. To his mother alone he yielded any thing like submission; and the Sioux were proud to hail the haughty child as their future chieftain. Such was the aspect of things on the shores of the Missisippi, when Florimond came among them, after an absence of three years. He was induced to make this visit, partly from a lingering curiosity to see his boy, and partly from the hopes of obtaining more land from the yielding Tahmiroo. He affected much contrition for his past conduct, and promised to return with Victoire before the year expired. His wife met him with the most chilling indifference, and listened to him with a vacant look, as if she heard him not. It was only when he spoke to her boy that he could rouse her from this apparent lethargy. On this subject she was all suspicion. She had a sort of undefined dread that he might be carried away from her; and her fears were not unfounded; for Florimond intended, by demonstrations of fondness, and glowing descriptions of Quebec, to kindle in the mind of his son a desire to accompany him. Tahmiroo thought the hatred of white men, which she had so carefully instilled, would prove a sufficient shield; but many weeks had not elapsed, before she saw that Louis was yielding himself up to the fascinating power which had enthralled her own youthful spirit. With this discovery came horrible thoughts of vengeance; and, more than once, she had nearly nerved her soul to murder the father of her son, but she could not.

Young Louis, full of boyish curiosity, expressed a wish to go with his father, though he, at the same time, promised a speedy return. He had always been a stubborn boy; and she felt now as if her worn-out spirit would vainly contend against his wilfulness. With that sort of resigned stupor which often indicates approaching insanity, she yielded to his request, exacting, however, a promise that he would sail a few miles down the Missisippi with her the day before his departure. The day arrived. Florimond was at a distance on business. Tahmiroo decked herself in the garments and jewels which she had worn on the day of her marriage, and selected the gaudiest wampum belts for the little Louis. "Why do you put these on?" said the boy.-"Because Tahmiroo will no more see her son in the land of the Sioux," said she, mournfully; "and, when her father meets her in the land of spirits, he will know the beads he gave her."-She took the wondering boy by the hand, and led him to the river-side. There lay the canoe which her father had given her when she left him for "the wigwam of the stranger." It was faded and bruised now, and so were all her hopes. She looked back on the hut where she had spent her brief term of wedded happiness, and its peacefulness seemed to mock her misery. And was she (the lone, the wretched, the desperate, and deserted one) the "Startled Fawn" of the Sioux, for whom contending chiefs had asked in vain? The remembrance of all her love and all her wrongs came up before her memory, and death seemed more pleasant to her than the gay dance she once loved so well. But then her eye rested on her boy-and, O God! with what an agony of love! "We will go to the land of spirits together," she exclaimed: "he cannot come there to rob me!" She took Louis in her arms as if he had been a feather, and, springing into the boat, guided it toward the Falls of St. Antony. "Mother, mother! the canoe is going over the rapids," screamed the frightened child. "My father stands on the waves and beckons to me!" she said. The boy looked at the horribly-fixed expression of her face, and shrieked aloud for help. The boat went over the cataract. Louis was seen no more. sleeps with the "Startled Fawn" of the Sioux, in the waves of the Missisippi!

He

The story is well remembered by the Indians of the present day; and, when a