cowardice, but she could not see him; she turned, and strove madly to stem the human torrent, and die with him under the tomahawks of the pursuing savages, but the torrent bore her along. Once more she pressed forward; he was strong, active, he was in the advance. She ran till her limbs, which had not rested for so many hours, failed her, and she sank by the road-side. The flying troops still hurried by,men, women, and boys,-some on foot, some on jaded horses. The yells of the foe, who, stopping to scalp those they slew, followed slowly, were just audible. Amid the crowd of terrified runners she could see no form like his. The tide of life, that had once before that morning ebbed, again flowed backward. The hideous scalp-shrieks drew nearer. She closed her eyes, and resigned herself once more to death.

A hand was laid on her shoulder. She started, looked, sprang up; - it was Grey, but so deathly pale she scarce knew him. What was it? A wound, a ball through the shoulder; his dress was dripping with blood. He had sought his saviour of the morning in front and rear, had pressed too near the enemy; a rifle had sped its ball close to his heart. In an instant Dora's wearied limbs seemed rested, even as Grey sank exhausted by her side. The scalp

screams came nearer. She gave one glance at him, — he was senseless; one at the chances of escape near by, which her own fate had never led her to look at.

Snow still cov

patches of bare

ered the earth, but here and there were leaves. At a little distance was an old moss-grown treeskeleton, fallen half a century before. Many a time had Dora hidden in such, in her childhood. A few steps carried her to it; it was, as she guessed, hollow. She returned, lifted with her whole life-energy the body of him she loved, and bore it to the rotten log. With great difficulty she brought back his senses by the help of the snow around them; bound his wound; pointed out his danger, and the only place of refuge; and, just as the Indians appeared in

the road almost beside them, filled the open end of their hiding-place with the leaves that had before been hidden within it by November winds.

It was a happy thought thus to push those within out, rather than to draw up those that lay about the opening. Dora and he whom she had twice saved lay feet to feet, unable to speak; but though speech was denied them, hearing was not. There were steps, voices; nearer and nearer they came. Low guttural sounds were made just above them. Presently two or more Indians, invited by the mossy seat, sat down over their heads; then they heard a gurgle as the whiskey-canteen of some dead regular was applied to savage lips, then laughter and yells. Presently a white man's voice perhaps Simon Girty's, he is said to have been there* - asked what was in that log they were on. The tipsy Indian stuck his hand into the hollow, and answered, "Leaves, leaves."

Ere long the love of blood outgrew that of the fire-water, and the green log covered less agitated hearts. Then came the sounds of the returning victors, and then the silence of night. The fugitives ventured forth. The cold earth and mouldering wood had stopped the bleeding wound, but Grey was still weak from the blood he had lost. They both needed food; they had not eaten for twenty-four hours. Dora silently disappeared. She went to the corpse-cumbered road; she took flour, meat, spirits, from the bodies of the slain,- for very many of the army in the absence of legal supplies had provided illegal. She tore from the dim-seen dead men linen to make bandages for him that lived; she took their coats for his bed.

Four days passed. The Indians, loaded with scalps and spoils, had gone northward. The whites were getting their breath and spinning their yarns in Forts Hamilton and Wash

Stone's Life of Brant, I. 310.

ington. The vultures, and the buzzards, and the carrioncrows possessed the battle-field. Grey, his strength almost restored, had gone out to look at the traces of death, while his comrade, having now for the first time dared to light a fire, prepared some civilized food. The young officer wan dered some way toward the ground of the engagement, till, warned by weakness, he turned again. Sauntering along, in that luxury of laziness known only to the valetudinarian, he saw suddenly a figure before him. It was McCrae, whom he had left over the kettle, only so differently dressed.

"Where, McCrae, did you get that?" cried he.

"Ha! you know me!" said the other, with a savage, reckless gravity, that astonished Grey beyond measure.

"Know you? My dear John, I have reason to know you. But why this masquerade? Is breakfast ready?"

McCrae stared with the air of one who had met a madman. "Who are you?" said he; "where have you seen me? what do you know of me?"

Grey thought the gay young woodsman playing a part, in his joy for their safety; so, putting on a part himself, he replied, "You're mad, John, raving crazy. Our escapes, our wounds, our starving, our freezing, have turned your head, John. I must bleed you, my boy."

The boy it was John himself- stood stupefied. He had from his hiding-place gone back to Cincinnati; had learned that John McCrae had marched with his company; had guessed his sister's sacrifice; and when the breath of the defeat reached him, stung into heroism by despair, reason, love, shame, fear, had gone to seek her,—to die if she were dead, if she were a captive to redeem her with his own life. At Grey's last words a light broke upon him. Have you known me ? cried he, eagerly. "Where

66

am I? where did we freeze and starve? where are we? Take me to her!"

The young officer began to think his comrade indeed in

sane. "Come," said he, taking McCrae's arm,

to our log."

"we'll go

They came to the spot : Dora had gone for water. "Do you feel better?" said Grey.

"Where is she?" replied the other, fiercely. "I'll have her, or your life."

Grey scarce knew whether to weep or laugh; he still thought it all pretence, so he laughed. John sprang at him, grappled him, they rolled together in the leaves. At that instant a clear, ringing voice came up the little hollow, charming the echoes into silence.

"It is she," cried John, springing to his feet.

"It is you," said Grey, almost speechless.

Slowly the young man's eyes turned from the brother to the sister, from the sister to the brother.

He was himself

going crazy. Dora embraced her counterfeit.

Why dwell on what is known? The secret was out, the maiden overpowered with shame, the soldier sick at heart with gratitude, admiration, and love.

John redeemed his character under Wayne; and for Dora, are there not Greys in New Jersey until to-day? Who was their ancestress?

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

AN INCIDENT OF WAYNE'S VICTORY.

AMONG the early settlers of Western Pennsylvania were several Highland families, and naturally enough where there were Highland men, there were Campbells. One of them, Arthur Campbell, the son of "old man Arthur," who lived in Alleghany County, is the hero of our sketch.

The boy was as active, strong, and intelligent as the descendant of mountaineers, himself a dweller among mountains, ought to be. No summer field of grass or wheat, no winter forest of massive trunks that were to be chopped and split into fire-wood, no wild-cat of the hills, nor fish of the stream, could tire out or elude him. He was early trained to follow the beasts of the wilderness, and to track its wild savages to their wigwams. His childhood was

amused with tales of the days of Braddock, and his youth instructed by the study of the frontier campaigns of Washington, Armstrong, and Bouquet. At sixteen, no keener scout, no stouter wood-chopper, no bolder hunter, was to be found about the Salt Springs of the Kiskiminitas, than the young Scotch Highlander. But Arthur was too ambitious to rest content with even the renown that filled a county. He had heard of Boone and the pioneers of Kentucky; he had read of the exploits of George Rogers Clark in the far