her mind, and to ascertain if the knowledge were real or only superficial. The first thing with these teachers seemed to be to make the pupil grasp the idea, and work at it until it was understood. In all cases this appeared to be thoroughly striven for before the second step should be taken. I attribute to this sensible, conscientious care, the well-grounding in the rudiments of knowledge that the Carlisle children are receiving. And the Institution is to be congratulated in the possession of such a competent, painstaking and devoted instructor as Miss Carrie M. Semple. She was educated at the Western Female College, Cincinnati; for years connected with the work of instructing the Freedmen of the South at Fiske University, also superintendent of the public schools at St. Augustine, Florida.

I wish I could give space to mention individually the different teachers of this department of the school life-the intellectual training. I enjoyed conversation with many of them, and caught never-to-be-forgotten glimpses of their devotion and adaptation to the cause. But the length of list forbids.

There are at present at Carlisle School four hundred and thirty-three pupils, one hundred and sixty of whom are girls, representing thirty-six tribes.

We will glance at some of these pupils in their native dress. Here is White Buffalo, a youth of eighteen years of age, with naturally gray hair, Tom Navajo, Iron, Northern Arapahoe, and Manuelito Chow, son of the former great chief of the Navajos, Manuelito.

The group of boys given represents six Osage Indians. All of them have good, clear faces, while the little fellow down in lower left corner might be "our boy" in some cultivated home-circle, as far as bright, lovable appearance goes.

Susie is the sole representative of her tribe, the Delawares or Leni, who were parties to the celebrated treaty with William Penn. They have been bought out, fought out, and driven out, from one point to another as the Anglo-Saxon forced his way across the country, until at present there remains a mere handful in the southern part of the Indian Territory. Susie is an exceptionally bright child, with a sweet voice, and is a member of the school choir. The doll (which certainly seems possessed with ambition to be a model of

deportment) was a gift through that good friend to the school, Miss Susan Longstreth, of Philadelphia.

Some two weeks after my return to Boston, I was very much touched by the reception of a package of sketches which some of the Carlisle pupils had executed for me. Out of a generous number, I am compelled to select but three. So I give Otto Zotom's idea of a battle with United States troops. Otto, of course, had his patriotic duty to his own tribe to perform, yet he is very generous

to his white brethren. The hills seem to trouble him somewhat, his rules on perspective not being so thoroughly acquired during his few months' sojourn at the school as to be wholly at his command. Yet he gets over it very well, and shows an original dash and force, born of his extremity.

It is a singular fact that the Indian children under education and the influence of family life are very averse to fighting. In their reachings after civilization, there is a recoil from the revenge, brutality and love of conquest attendant upon war. In their letters, in their talk, in their spirit, more

than all, is exhibited a desire to live and learn in peace with all. Their thirst is for knowledge.

IN PURSUIT OF U. S. TROOPS.

This Otto Zotom, a young Kiowa, is a very bright, promising boy. He was sent to Carlisle by his brother, now a deacon in the Episcopal Church, and a missionary in the Indian country, but formerly a prisoner under the care of Captain Pratt, at Fort Marion (San Marco), Florida.

A study of horses, by Otto, is interesting as

see the institution for themselves. If ever your wanderings call you in the vicinity of the quiet town, grasp the opportunity, I beg of you. You will never regret it. You may be sure of a cordial welcome, a capital chance to inspect and criticise, and you will come away enlightened on many points. Such visits are worth hundreds of magazine articles and countless letters from enthusiastic friends. "Seeing is believing," now as it has ever been.

I am glad to announce that the Fair under the auspices of Mrs. J. Huntington Wolcott and her corps of young ladies in Boston has netted for Carlisle the grand sum of two thousand dollars. On the strength of it, Captain Pratt writes me that he expects to undertake the care of five boys and five girls from the Pueblo village of Isleta, N. M. Think of it! Ten children rescued by these noble, womanly efforts, from savage degradation to grow up into good citizenship.

showing the development of ideas as regards pose and proportions of equine anatomy, as they arise naturally to the self-tutored mind of an Indian boy, while his portrayal of an engagement with a buffalo enlists our sympathies for the poor "King of the Plains." Otto in his extreme generosity wishes every one engaged in the encounter to enjoy a shot that tells; so that the glory of the whole thing is most satisfying. The young artist has a true love for his pencil, and such a painstaking industry that the world may yet hear from the Indian boy at Carlisle. All success to himyoung Otto Zotom!

In closing this meagre account of Carlisle School and its workings, so different from what I long to give, I can only express the earnest wish that every reader of the WIDE AWAKE could visit and

How many other fairs can be held? If we cannot raise two thousand dollars to educate ten, we may gather in two hundred dollars; and who can estimate the influence of one Indan child at

AN INDIAN BOY'S DRAWINGS. A BUFFALO HUNT.

Carlisle? The hearts of his tribe go with him, and are awakened to gratitude, and the cementing of

CHAPTER IV.

T was over. Three words how easy to say
It was over?

I how hard to understand!

What was over? Rather it had just begun. They sat down in the parlor, and looked at each other, like people who had met for the first time in a strange land. It seemed to Loto as if she had never seen before that person whom she called her mother-the calm, set face, and patient smile; the hair that whitened already, visibly in these three days-the stillness, and above all the pitiful cheerfulness confused the girl. She had expected tears and sobs and uncontrollable grief. This was her first trouble. After she had cried herself half blind, she remembered that, and

thought how years taught endurance, and wondered again at the way that life instructed people how to live; and remembered how very young she was, and ignorant, and how much was before her, and how much courage she should need, until the very thought killed half the courage out of her. It was over - the funeral, and all the miserable details and the relatives had come, and some of them had gone, and some of them hadn't (and Fern had been there too, and Egbert brought her, but they had gone), and the house had been full and confused, and the will had been read, and the uncle who thought he knew what they ought to do had discussed everything with the aunt who was sure she didn't, and the cousin who said they could keep a boarding-house, had got offended

with the sister-in-law who thought they had better sell; and the other uncle who proposed their going West- but he had taken the noon train, thank Heaven!

Loto looked about confusedly. She wondered why they had so many relations. She half hated them. It seemed to her as if every minute her father must come in, and thank them all, and tell them it was quite unnecessary to take so much trouble since he was better and entirely able to look after his own family. She instinctively turned to the door now and then, to see him enter, and once when some one opened the office door, she actually sprang to go and tell him what had happened. She was all ready to say:

"O, papa, papa! They all think you are dead and can't take care of us. Won't you just go into

the parlor and explain it ?

"And, papa, aunt Matthews would not have colored flowers at your funeral and I told her you hated all heliotrope and white things, and mother was up-stairs alone and didn't notice, and uncle Peter

"Yes, papa, uncle Peter says we ought to go WEST! Please be quick and tell him-O, papa!"

Poor Loto! She stole away out of the parlor. It was one of the minutes when she could bear no more. She left the aunts and cousins and the uncle, and the nurse and a neighbor and two patients, and her mother, white and sweet like a statue among them all, and got away into the back yard by the wood-pile, and hid herself for a little while. Dash came too, and crawled close to her so that she could bury her face in his warm neck. Dash seemed to understand. He was very quiet and sober. One of the patients followed her. It was a pale girl, hardly more than her own age. She spoke gently, and timidly :

"Would you mind if I spoke to you a minute? ” "I don't know that I should," said Loto, battling back the sobs she had sought freedom for in solitude. "It depends on what you have to say."

She did not know this other girl. It was a new patient; yet where had she seen her face? Suddenly Loto remembered where. It was the first day that her father had been left down-stairs in the darkened parlor; she, Loto, was in there on some errand for her mother, and had just stepped into the next room, leaving the door ajar. While she was there, some one allowed this girl to come

in, and left her alone with the dead. She had brought flowers - blush roses - only a few; she was rather a poor girl, Loto thought. Unseen and puzzled, Loto in the adjoining room was the witness of a scene which she never forgot.

She

The girl stood for a few moments perfectly still. She was as pale as the dead himself. did not shed any tears at first; it seemed she hardly breathed, but only looked. Then advancing blindly, she laid her scanty hothouse roses down upon the dead man's breast, and bending over, gazed into his face with the look of one who had been bereft of more than another could understand. Suddenly, she drew in her breath, and began to sob-threw herself down across the casket, and broke into a passion of grief which racked her slender body as the wind blows a reed. "Oh, my dear Doctor!" she cried. “My dear, dear Doctor! Oh, what shall we do? What will become of us? Oh, I never half thanked you! I never began to bless you! Doctor, Doctor, dear Doctor! Hear me, can't you? Please try to hear me! Oh, what shall I do?"

Believing herself alone, the patient abandoned herself to her sacred grief for her dead physician in a way that inexpressibly touched the daughter's heart Loto would have gone up and comforted that other girl had she dared to; but, instead, she turned her back upon the scene of which she was not meant to be a spectator, and felt as if she stood in the presence of a bereavement almost as deep as her own, and so took the stranger into her heart as one of the "nearest" mourners, with a solemn sympathy.

This was the girl who now approached her where she cowered away behind the wood-pile in the yard, alone with the sober dog.

"I am a patient," said the stranger simply, " I loved him. I wanted to tell you so."

"All his patients did," said the daughter, with trembling lips.

-

and strong. He kept us in courage and hope. There was no end to it. And I had the feverand he saved me too, but that doesn't count for so much, only to mother. I don't know what would have become of mother if I had died. I don't know what would have happened to me if mother had died. There are only we two. We're neither of us very strong and poor. And he never took a dollar from us, not one, for all that care. Oh, there was no end to it—and nights too. And came just as often as if we were rich patients : oftener, I thought; and when he was tired, he was never cross or quick. And I had other trouble that nobody else knew, but I told him can't tell you-but he helped me out. Your father helped me like an angel of God. I can't explain to you what your father was. You don't know what a patient loses in a doctor. It is all alone. It is a grief by itself. He carried our lives. He kept us from every danger. He stood between us and trouble. We leaned on him. We loved him. There was never any one like him in the world. . . . I would have died to save him."

are mourners too.

and I

"There," added the girl, after a silence, broken only by the daughter's sobs, "I wanted you to cry. You've been keeping up in that parlor too long. I thought I'd tell you this. I thought if you knew how the patients feel -Oh, there is sorrow for miles around! Almost every house is afflicted with yours. Half the people in the town You don't know me. - Letty Blayne. It doesn't matter. But I thought I'd dare to come to tell you. Most people like their doctors, but oh! we loved ours. There was never any one like him. There was no end to his unselfishness nor his tenderness- nor his patience -and when you were nervous he was as gentle as if he had been a sick girl himself— and everybody blessed him, and everybody loved him, and nobody knows what to do now he is gone-such a man your father was! There, I'll go now. Might I kiss you? I love you because you are my doctor's daughter. Thank you! I shall remember that! I won't trouble you any more. Oh, you poor, poor thing! . . Oh, we none of us ever thought of it! We never thought our Doctor could die!"

Loto had but half cried her cry out behind the wood-pile when steps again disturbed her.

"Are people not allowed even to be miserable in peace?" she thought.

But, turning, she saw that it was her brother. Slam looked pale and forlorn. Her heart went out to meet the boy to whom, she remembered, she had not been any too devoted in these hard days. He was not so old as she. She must take care of him now. Had she been forgetful because he was

only Slam?

"What is it, dear?" she said gently.

"I haven't any particular place to be," said Slam. "Nobody wants a fellow round after funerals."

"Come and sit by me," said his sister, "I shall be glad to have you. You haven't got cut, or hurt in any new way, have you? There hasn't anything happened to you, has there?"

"What do you take me for?" asked Slam reprovingly. "I haven't done a thing, but hammer my finger-nail, since father died. And S'reeny bound it up. I was helping Jake and Wake about

that curtain to make two bedrooms for all those cousins in the little corner east. It don't ache so much as it might. I hate that cousin that says we might go West."

"That isn't a cousin," said Loto. uncle Peter."

"That is

"Is it?" asked Slam, with an air of indifference. "I thought it was a sort of cousin. I'd like to see the whole pack of 'em leave us to manage our own affairs."

"They mean to be kind, Slam. It's all right, you know-I suppose we ought to be thankful and all that, and we've got to manage our own affairs fast enough."

"I s'pose I shall have to do it," said Slam, with an important air, whittling tooth-picks out of pine kindlers while he talked, "I'm the man of the house, now."

"When you stop getting banged up and cut to pieces and drowned and all that, dear — why, yes, sometime. You will be the man of the house ultimately, of course," replied Loto musingly. She was thinking of many things that had but now occurred to her.

"Ultimately?" This word was rather beyond Slam. "But father wasn't the man of the house ultimately. If he wasn't, you needn't expect it of I've got to be the real thing. Say, Loto, how do you like that cousin with the red wig?

me.