The interior of the large cabin presented a scene of bustling activity.
Twenty or more Indians bent their backs in earnest employment. In one corner a savage stood holding a piece of red-hot iron on an anvil, while a brawny brave wielded a sledge-hammer. The sparks flew; the anvil rang. In another corner a circle of braves sat around a pile of dried grass and flags. They were twisting and fashioning these materials into baskets. At a bench three Indian carpenters were pounding and sawing. Young braves ran back and forth, carrying pails, rough-hewn boards and blocks of wood.
Instantly struck by two things, Jim voiced his curiosity:
"Why do these Indians all wear long hair, smooth and shiny, without adornment?"
"They are Christians. They wear neither headdress, war-bonnet, nor scalp-lock," replied Mr. Zeisberger, with unconscious pride.
"I did not expect to see a blacksmith's anvil out here in the wilderness.
Where did you procure these tools?"
"We have been years getting them here. Some came by way of the Ohio River; others overland from Detroit. That anvil has a history. It was lost once, and lay for years in the woods, until some Indians found it again. It is called the Ringing Stone, and Indians come from miles around to see and hear it."
The missionary pointed out wide fields of corn, now growing yellow, and hillsides doted with browsing cattle, droves of sturdy-limbed horses, and pens of fat, grunting pigs--all of which attested to the growing prosperity of the Village of Peace.
On the way back to the cabin, while the others listened to and questioned Mr.
Zeisberger, Jim was silent and thoughtful, for his thoughts reverted to his brother.
Later, as he walked with Nell by the golden-fringed stream, he spoke of Joe.
"Joe wanted so much to hunt with Wetzel. He will come back; surely he will return to us when he has satisfied his wild craving for adventure. Do you not think so?"
There was an eagerness that was almost pleading in Jim's voice. What he so much hoped for--that no harm had befallen Joe, and that he would return--he doubted. he needed the encouragement of his hope.
"Never," answered Nell, solemnly.
"Oh, why--why do you say that?"
"I saw him look at you--a strange, intent glance. He gazed long at me as we separated. Oh! I can feel his eyes. No; he will never come back."
"Nell, Nell, you don not mean he went away deliberately--because, oh! I cannot say it."
"For no reason, except that the wilderness called him more than love for you or--me."
"No, no," returned Jim, his face white. "You do not understand. He really loved you--I know it. He loved me, too. Ah, how well! He has gone because--I can't tell you."
"Oh, Jim, I hope--he loved--me," sobbed Nell, bursting into tears. "His coldness--his neglect those--last few days--hurt me--so. If he cared--as you say--I won't be--so--miserable."
"We are both right--you when you say he will never return, and I when I say he loved us both," said Jim sadly, as the bitter certainty forced itself into his mind.
As she sobbed softly, and he gazed with set, stern face into the darkening forest, the deep, mellow notes of the church bell pealed out. So thrilled, so startled were they by this melody wondrously breaking the twilight stillness, that they gazed mutely at each other. Then they remembered. It was the missionary's bell summoning the Christian Indians to the evening service.
