I can hardly see you at all - where is Hist?"
"I here, poor girl-Why you no see me?"
"I do see you; but I couldn't tell whether 'twas you, or Judith.
I believe I shan't see you much longer, Hist."
"Sorry for that, poor Hetty.
Never mind - pale-face got a heaven for girl as well as for warrior."
"Where's the Serpent?
Let me speak to him; give me his hand; so; I feel it.
Delaware, you will love and cherish this young Indian woman - I know how fond she is of you; you must be fond of her.
Don't treat her as some of your people treat their wives; be a real husband to her.
Now, bring Deerslayer near me; give me his hand."
This request was complied with, and the hunter stood by the side of the pallet, submitting to the wishes of the girl with the docility of a child.
"I feel, Deerslayer," she resumed, "though I couldn't tell why -but I feel that you and I are not going to part for ever.
'Tis a strange feeling!
I never had it before; I wonder what it comes from!" "'Tis God encouraging you in extremity, Hetty; as such it ought to be harbored and respected. Yes, we shall meet ag'in, though it may be a long time first, and in a far distant land." "Do you mean to be buried in the lake, too?
If so, that may account for the feeling."
"'Tis little likely, gal; 'tis little likely; but there's a region for Christian souls, where there's no lakes, nor woods, they say; though why there should be none of the last, is more than I can account for; seeing that pleasantness and peace is the object in view.
My grave will be found in the forest, most likely, but I hope my spirit will not be far from your'n."
"So it must be, then.
I am too weak-minded to understand these things, but I feel that you and I will meet again. Sister, where are you?
I can't see, now, anything but darkness.
It must be night, surely!"
"Oh! Hetty, I am here at your side; these are my arms that are around you," sobbed Judith. "Speak, dearest; is there anything you wish to say, or have done, in this awful moment."
By this time Hetty's sight had entirely failed her.
Nevertheless death approached with less than usual of its horrors, as if in tenderness to one of her half-endowed faculties.
She was pale as a corpse, but her breathing was easy and unbroken, while her voice, though lowered almost to a whisper, remained clear and distinct.
When her sister put this question, however, a blush diffused itself over the features of the dying girl, so faint however as to be nearly imperceptible; resembling that hue of the rose which is thought to portray the tint of modesty, rather than the dye of the flower in its richer bloom.
No one but Judith detected this exposure of feeling, one of the gentle expressions of womanly sensibility, even in death.
On her, however, it was not lost, nor did she conceal from herself the cause.
"Hurry is here, dearest Hetty," whispered the sister, with her face so near the sufferer as to keep the words from other ears. "Shall I tell him to come and receive your good wishes?"
A gentle pressure of the hand answered in the affirmative. Then Hurry was brought to the side of the pallet.
It is probable that this handsome but rude woodsman had never before found himself so awkwardly placed, though the inclination which Hetty felt for him (a sort of secret yielding to the instincts of nature, rather than any unbecoming impulse of an ill-regulated imagination), was too pure and unobtrusive to have created the slightest suspicion of the circumstance in his mind.
He allowed Judith to put his hard colossal hand between those of Hetty, and stood waiting the result in awkward silence.
"This is Hurry, dearest," whispered Judith, bending over her sister, ashamed to utter the words so as to be audible to herself. "Speak to him, and let him go."
"What shall I say, Judith?"
"Nay, whatever your own pure spirit teaches, my love.
Trust to that, and you need fear nothing."
"Good bye, Hurry," murmured the girl, with a gentle pressure of his hand.
"I wish you would try and be more like Deerslayer."
These words were uttered with difficulty; a faint flush succeeded them for a single instant. Then the hand was relinquished, and Hetty turned her face aside, as if done with the world.
The mysterious feeling that bound her to the young man, a sentiment so gentle as to be almost imperceptible to herself, and which could never have existed at all, had her reason possessed more command over her senses, was forever lost in thoughts of a more elevated, though scarcely of a purer character.
"Of what are you thinking, my sweet sister?" whispered Judith "Tell me, that I may aid you at this moment."
"Mother - I see Mother, now, and bright beings around her in the lake. Why isn't father there?
It's odd that I can see Mother, when I can't see you! Farewell, Judith."
The last words were uttered after a pause, and her sister had hung over her some time, in anxious watchfulness, before she perceived that the gentle spirit had departed.
Thus died Hetty Hutter, one of those mysterious links between the material and immaterial world, which, while they appear to be deprived of so much that it is esteemed and necessary for this state of being, draw so near to, and offer so beautiful an illustration of the truth, purity, and simplicity of another.
Chapter XXXII
"A baron's chylde to be begylde! it were a cursed dede: To be felаwe with an outlаwe!
Almighty God forbede!
Yea, better were, the pore squy re alone to forest yede, Then ye sholde say another day, that by my cursed dede Ye were betrayed: wherefore, good mayde, the best rede that I can, Is, that I to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man." Thomas Percy, 'Nutbrowne Mayde,' 11. 265-76 from Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, Vol. II.