A shade of displeasure crossed his face, apparently of disappointment at not discovering some person or object for whom he was looking.

Waiting a moment, he placed his thumb on his mouth, and gave utterance to a low, tremulous whistle, an exact imitation of a bird often found in the American swamps.

A moment later, there came a response exactly the same, except that it sounded fainter and a considerable distance away.
The moment it caught the ear of the Huron, he reseated himself and folded his arms in the attitude of patient waiting.
Scarce five minutes had elapsed, when the plash of another paddle was heard, and a second canoe made its appearance, carefully approaching that of the Huron.

In it was seated an Indian boy, not more than twelve years of age, who handled it with a skill scarcely second to that of his father, Oonomoo.
"Niniotan, my son, is late," said the latter, sternly, as the boy came alongside.
[Illustration: "Niniotan, my son, is late."] "I was chasing a deer this morning, and was carried further in the woods than I thought," meekly replied the boy.
"Has the Moravian missionary given Niniotan two tongues that he should think Oonomoo speaks idle words ?" "Niniotan does not think so," said the son, in a humble voice of thrilling sweetness.
"Oonomoo said when the sun was over yonder tree-top he would be waiting for his boy Niniotan.

He waited, but Niniotan was not here." The son of the Huron warrior bowed his head as if he had nothing to say to the merited rebuke.