The open door revealed the wasted form of Harpstenah, an aged woman.
Aged, but not with years! Evil had been the days of her pilgrimage.
The fire that had burned in the wigwam was all gone out, the dead ashes lay in the centre, ever and anon scattered by the wind over the wretched household articles that lay around.

Gone out, too, were the flames that once lighted with happiness the heart of Harpstenah.
The sorrows of earth, more pitiless than the winds of heaven, had scattered forever the hopes that had made her a being of light and life.
The head that lies on the earth was once pillowed on the breast of the lover of her youth.

The arm that is heavily thrown from her once clasped his children to her heart.
What if the rain pours in upon her, or the driving wind and hail scatter her wild locks?
She feels it not.

Life is there, but the consciousness of life is gone forever.
A heavier cloud hangs about her heart than that which darkens nature.
She fears not the thunder, nor sees the angry lightning.

She has laid upon the scaffold her youngest son, the last of the many ties that bound her to earth.
One week before, her son entered the wigwam.