"Here the wren of softest note
Builds its nest and warbles well;
Here the blackbird strains his throat;
Welcome, welcome to our cell."--COLERIDGE.
The day was far advanced, before the sick Indian girl could be brought home
to their sylvan lodge, where Catharine made up a comfortable couch for her,
with boughs and grass, and spread one of the deer-skins over it, and laid
her down as tenderly and carefully as if she had been a dear sister. This
good girl was overjoyed at having found a companion of her own age and sex.
"Now," said she, "I shall no more be lonely, I shall have a companion and
friend to talk to and assist me;" but when she turned in the fulness of
her heart to address herself to the young stranger, she felt herself
embarrassed in what way to make her comprehend the words she used to
express the kindness that she felt for her, and her sorrow for her
sufferings.
The young stranger would raise her head, look intently at her, as if
striving to interpret her words, then sadly shake her head, and utter her
words in her own plaintive language, but, alas! Catharine felt it was to
her as a sealed book.
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