It was only
six months ago that this first-born child had been laid in her arms; and
as she lay on the white bed looking out on the spring dawning day after
day, her husband sat beside her telling her again and again of the house
he had made ready for her in Penn's new settlement. She never tired of
hearing of it. Some picture of this far-off home must have come to the
poor girl as she stood now in the night, the sea-water creeping up to
her naked feet, looking at the fires built, as she believed, for her
child.
Toward midnight a canoe came from the opposite side, into which the
chief put Barrow, Dickenson, the child, and its mother. Their worst
fears being thus confirmed, they crossed in silence, holding each other
by the hand, the poor baby moaning now and then. It had indeed been born
tired into the world, and had gone moaning its weak life out ever since.
Landing on the farther beach, the crowd of waiting Indians fled from
them as if frightened, and halted in the darkness beyond the fires. But
the Cassekey dragged them on toward a wigwam, taking Mary and the child
before the others. "Herein," says her husband, "was the Wife of the
Canibal and some old Women sitting in a Cabbin made of Sticks about a
Foot high, and covered with a Matt. He made signs for us to sitt down on
the Ground, which we did.
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