"
With that dying blessing his spirit took its flight. He had passed away,
the last one of his kind, he who had lived a life of solitude, apart
from the world, looking upon the white man as having taken from him his
home, his lands, and the forests which would have been his if the white
man had not, long years ago, laid them low; yes, he had breathed a
blessing, with his last breath, upon the pale-face. He who had not a
brother left to bury him, had thanked God that the Pale-face had come to
close his eyes; yes, it was the voice of childhood which had made his
last moments happy, had pointed out the road which leads the
wanderer home.
It was a scene to melt the hardest heart; that little child, scarcely as
high as the rude couch, reaching up to close the eyes of him whom she
should see no more. As she sat by his side, and looked around the room
where she had spent so many happy hours, a sense of loneliness crept
over her. There was the pipe which he had smoked, laid away on the
little chimney-piece, and by the bed-side was the pail of broth with
which she had thought to please him so much; and at the remembrance she
burst into tears, and her tears fell upon the hand of him who lay
sleeping.
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