resistance they could; but this was ineffectual. The struggle was sharp and brief. Many of the best warriors were soon killed, and the rest fled precipitately, following the women and children who escaped into the woods when the combat began.

Merwin, as soon as he saw that his men were fairly engaged with the Indians, called a few trusty fellows, and went in search of Millicent. Not finding her at the wigwam, he plunged into the wood, following luckily the path taken by Ninigret.

After dragging the girl ruthlessly with him, until she fainted with fright, Ninigret laid her on the ground for a moment, in order to arrange his weapons, so that he might bear her away in his arms. While doing this he espied Merwin advancing, and, taking hasty aim at him with his musket, fired. The ball missed its mark and struck one of Merwin's companions. As the Indian bounded off Merwin raised his rifle and fired in return, with deadly effect. Ninigret, leaping high in the air, fell dead, pierced through the heart. The English bore his body a short distance into the forest, and, leaving it to such a burial as nature might grant, hurried back to Millicent, who still lay in a swoon. They then carried her to the scene of battle and placed her in one of the wigwams lately occupied by the Indians.

For a week Capt. Merwin and his men remained in the vicinity to intercept any band of Indians that might be passing westward. Merwin, although often away upon scouting expeditions, found ample time to improve his acquaintance with his rescued charge, in whom he was fast becoming deeply interested. It was the evening before their departure for Boston. The air was soft and laden with the fragrance of flowers; the lake, its surface unruffled by a ripple, lay spread like a great mirror, reflecting the lustre of the full moon. Two persons stood near the water's edge contemplating the beauty of the scene. The quiet harmony of nature seemed to possess their souls, and for a time neither spoke. Millicent was the first to break the silence.

"What serenity after the strife of last week!"

"It is, indeed, a contrast this night. Let us sit here awhile and enjoy its beauty," said Merwin; and, assisting Millicent to a seat. upon the trunk of a fallen tree, he placed himself at her feet.

'How strange it all seems! Here I am in the forest, as I was a week ago, yet under such different circumstances, - free from my nemies and surrounded by only friends."

"And another week will change your surroundings entirely; and the new friends made now will, like the Indians, be present but in memory. You know to-morrow we are to leave here."

"I can hardly realize it. Ah, Captain Merwin! can it be that I shall so soon leave Wigwam Hill, the scene of my trying life of captivity, behind me?"

"Yes; by to-morrow at this time, I trust, you will be far from this spot where you have suffered so much. This beautiful lake will always recall unpleasant associations to your mind, I fear, while to mine it will recall some of the pleasantest hours of my life." "No; I, too, shall have pleasant recollections of these shores. The memory of your noble kindness to me will not be effaced. But tell me, where do we go then?" Millicent asked, rather seriously.

"It cannot matter to you where I and my men go; but you I hope to take to your sister."

"To Martha, Captain Merwin? Is my dear sister then alive? Is there no doubt of it?"

"None."

"Is it possible? What happiness!" breathed Millicent, with tears in her eyes. "I cannot believe it. I cannot believe that I shall again see my dear sister, whom I have so long supposed dead. How did you know she was alive; and why have you not told me this before?"

"Because I wished to surprise you just before our departure. You will not deprive me of that last pleasure, would you?" asked the captain in a low voice, smiling faintly. "I made all possible inquiry when in Boston, and, just as about to depart with the troops, received accurate news of her whereabouts."

"I see; and so she is safe, and we shall meet before many days. Where is she, please?" asked Millicent, smiling divinely upon Merwin.

Drinking in the sweetness of the smile the captain gave her an account of her sister's fortune, and of her surroundings.

"The Stantons, with whom she is, are friends of mine," he observed, rather gloomily.

"Ah, indeed; then it will be a pleasant meeting all around!" and she clapped her hands with joy. Then, noticing the captain's gravity, she said, "Why are you so sad, Captain Merwin?"

"Oh, I don't know. I did not mean to be," and he tried to smile. "Yes, I think I do appear rather glum, - don't mind the word, it is so expressive of my feelings. You see, this last week has been so pleasant, we have become such good friends, and learned to know each other's tastes so well, and I have enjoyed so intensely giving you your freedom and sharing it with you, that the thought that it must all end, that I must take you back to interests which I can know nothing of and have no share in, is just a little hard to bear at present. You will think me selfish; forgive me, I did not mean to mention it, but you asked me."

She held out her hand to him and said, "You are my trusted friend, and will be my sister's when she knows what you have done for me; so do not say you will have no share in our interests."

"You are very kind," he replied, pressing her hand tightly in his, then dropping it suddenly.

Captain Merwin," said Millicent, in turn looking grave, "the past year I have lived in an atmosphere of treachery and revenge; the minds of those with whom I have been associated were filled with anything but Christian thoughts. Unkindness and ill-feeling have found a fertile soil upon which to thrive in their hearts; but deep in my own I ever kept a spot green, where the plant of gratitude could again grow should the occasion offer. It did offer. The seeds were sown by a kind and generous hand; the plant grew quickly, and to-day it blossomed in full. Deeply grateful for what you have done for me, I beg you to accept its flowers." And, with tears in her eyes, she held toward him a small exquisitely selected bunch of fragrant white azalias.

Taking the blossoms tenderly he lifted them to his lips. What a pretty idea! Who but you would have thought of rewarding a common deed of kindness so sweetly? I shall cherish these flowers, they are so like you. Did you really pick them for me?"

"Yes, and selected them out of many. It was all I had. If ever I can reward you better tell me, for I would willingly do you any favor to pay the debt of gratitude I owe you. I assure you I feel my obligation deeply," said Millicent, blushing.

"There is a reward you could give me now; but I scarcely dare ask it, for I know it to be more than I deserve." And the captain gazed at Millicent with a look that brought a bright blush to the young girl's cheek.

"Perhaps it is not," she replied, hesitatingly. "I don't think I understand you."

"Well, then, Millicent, may I call you that?-the drawingroom term of Miss does not suit our simple life here." And, as she nodded assent, he continued, "Will you answer a question, even a hard one?"

"I will try."

"Tell me, then, if ever in the heart where the plant of gratitude grew another far sweeter flower has grown?"

"That of friendship do you mean?"

"Yes; the plant might be called friendship, but its blossom is love. Ah, Millicent! may I not take the fairest of these sweet flowers, and, placing it in the centre, call it love surrounded by gratitude? Then would my nosegay be perfect indeed."

Millicent looked, beyond the ardent gaze of the captain, into the lake, and made no reply.

Throwing off the language of flowers, and all language but that of simple truth, the reward I desire above all on earth is yourself. I know my request is a bold one, and I ought, I suppose, not to make it for months, if ever. But come it must, and to-night my

heart has forced it to my lips."

"It is very sudden," Millicent answered, faintly.

"I know that, but, after all, most deep feelings are sudden. In the savages, with whom you have been associated, have you not seen hate and other strong passions develop in a moment? Why, then, should not love, in a more appropriate soil, spring to life? It certainly has taken deep root in my heart. Give me some answer, Millicent, if it be but that of hope deferred.

love me?"

"What if I do now?" said Millicent, demurely.

you ever

"Do you really, Millicent? Then I am the proudest, happiest man alive," said Merwin. And, possessing himself of both her hands, kissed them vehemently.

"I trust I am doing right, Captain Merwin; I am almost sure I love you."

"Thank you, dearest, thank you, for your sweet words. Your reward for them shall be my life devoted to your service." And he drew her to him and kissed her lips.

"You deserve a whole life of thanks, Captain Merwin"—

"Call me Harold."

for releasing me from such a captivity, Harold, and, lastly, from death, or worse than death." And weeping, she threw her arms about his neck and buried her head on his shoulder.

My brave darling, I hope and believe your troubles are at an end. I only wonder your strength has survived the hardships of such a life as yours has been the past year."

"Think of how much has happened in the last short weeks!" "True, ours has been a courtship in which the bitter and the sweet have been equally mingled, but now the peace complete is coning love, for King Philip is dead and the war is over."

THE PICTURE.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

It was only a simple picture,
The simplest, perhaps, of all
The many and costly paintings
That hung on the parlor wall;
But it held my gaze the longest,
And it touched my inmost heart
With a pathos in which the others
Held neither place nor part.

It showed me a lonely hill-side,

Where the light of the day had fled,
And the clouds of an angry twilight
Were gathering overhead;

And under the deepening shadows,
Tired and sore afraid,

A sheep and her lamb were grieving,
Far from the sheepfold strayed.

Only a simple picture;

But oh, how full of truth,

Which silently spoke from the canvas
Its lesson of age and youth!

For are we not sheep, sore needing
The safety of Christ's own fold?

And do we not often wander

Far from his loving hold,