of the wigwam, and on a lone, hapless, disfigured girl, who dipped her smarting hands in the cold spring at the foot of the beech tree, and with them bathed her fiery lips and eyelids. This was Nattie. Her clothing was more than half consumed. The anguish of the burns was maddening; and the dreadful scenes through which she had passed had almost frozen her soul with terror. It seemed as if the poor child had fled from the fire to perish from cold and hunger in the forest, even if the unfeeling foes did not return to devote her to a fate yet more hapless and cruel. Winter and wilderness surrounded her; not a friend to help, and the Frenchmen sure to return to their work of felling trees on the morrow.
"They will finish me then," thought Nattie; "and it would have been better for me to stay in the fire, as the poor squaws did."
These words caused her to remember the hardness which she had exercised toward the ignorant savages. The pain of her burns, which were
