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By Root 1075 0

left without the usual aids of humanity. Her person, too, was agreeable, having a strong resemblance to that of her sister, of which it was a subdued and humble copy If it had none of the brilliancy of Judith’s, the calm, quiet, almost holy expression of her meek countenance, seldom failed to win on the observer ; and few noted it long, that did not begin to feel a deep and lasting interest in the girl. She had no color, in common, nor was her simple mind apt to present images that caused her cheek to brighten; though she retained a modesty so innate, that it almost raised her to the unsuspecting purity of a being superior to human infirmities. Guileless, innocent, and without distrust, equally by nature and from her mode of life, Providence had, nevertheless, shielded her from harm by a halo of moral light, as it is said “to temper the wind to the shorn lamb.”

“You are Hetty Hutter,” said Deerslayer, in the way one puts a question unconsciously to himself, assuming a kindness of tone and manner that were singularly adapted to win the confidence of her he addressed. “Hurry Harry has told me of you, and I know you must be the child?”

“Yes, I’m Hetty Hutter,” returned the girl, in a low, sweet voice, which nature, aided by some education, had preserved from vulgarity of tone and utterance: “I’m Hetty; Judith Hutter’s sister, and Thomas Hutter’s youngest daughter.”

“I know your history, then, for Hurry Harry talks considerable, and he is free of speech, when he can find other people’s consarns to dwell on. You pass most of your life on the lake, Hetty”

“Certainly. Mother is dead; father is gone a-trapping, and Judith and I stay at home. What’s your name,?”

“That’s a question more easily asked than it is answered,1 young woman; seeing that I’m so young, and yet have borne more names than some of the greatest chiefs in all America.”

“But you’ve got a name—you don’t throw away one name before you come honestly by another?”

“I hope not, gal—I hope not. My names have come nat‘rally; and I suppose the one I bear now will be of no great lasting, since the Delawares seldom settle on a man’s r’al title, until such time as he has opportunity of showing his true natur’, in the council or on the warpath; which has never behappened me; seeing, firstly, because I’m not born a redskin, and have no right to sit in their councilings, and am much too humble to be called on for opinions from the great of my own color; and, secondly, because this is the first war that has befallen in my time, and no inimy has yet inroaded far enough into the colony to be reached by an arm even longer than mine.”

“Tell me your names,” added Hetty, looking up at him artlessly, “and, maybe, I’ll tell you your character.”

“There is some truth in that, I’ll not deny, though it often fails. Men are deceived in other men’s characters, and frequently give ’em names they by no means desarve. You can see the truth of this in the Mingo names, which, in their own tongue, signify the same things as the Delaware names—at least, so they tell me, for I know little of that tribe, unless it be by report—and no one can say they are as honest or as upright a nation. I put no great dependence, therefore, on names.”

“Tell me all your names,” repeated the girl, earnestly, for her mind was too simple to separate things from professions, and she did attach importance to a name; “I want to know what to think of you.”

“Well, sartain; I’ve no objection, and you shall hear them all. In the first place, then, I’m Christian, and white-born, like yourself, and my parents had a name that came down from father to son, as is a part of their gifts. My father was called Bumppo; and I was named after him, of course, the given name being Nathaniel, or Natty, as most people saw fit to tarm it.”

“Yes, yes—Natty—and Hetty”—interrupted the girl quickly, and looking up from her work again, with a smile: “you are Natty, and I’m Hetty—though you are Bumppo, and I’m Hutter. Bumppo isn’t as pretty as Hutter, is it?”

“Why, that’s as people fancy Bumppo has no lofty sound, I admit; and yet men have