His dark complexion, and full, melancholy eyes, which he kept fixed upon the ashes in which he was making marks with a stick, rarely raising them to gaze on us, as children are wont to do, interested me exceedingly, and I inquired of an intelligent little girl, evidently a daughter of our host,-- "Who is that boy ?" "Oh, that is John Ogie," answered she.
"What is the matter with him?
he looks very sad." "Oh, he is fretting after his mother." "Is she dead, then ?" "Some say she is dead, and some say she is gone away.

I guess she is dead, and buried up in one of those graves yonder"-- pointing to two or three little picketed inclosures upon a rising ground opposite the window.
I felt a strong sympathy with the child, which was increased when the little spokeswoman, in answer to my inquiry, "Has he no father ?" replied,-- "Oh, yes, but he goes away, and drinks, and don't care for his children." "And what becomes of John then ?" "He stays here with us, and we teach him to read, and he learns _dreadful_ fast." When the boy at length turned his large dark eyes upon me, it went to my heart.

It was such a _motherless_ look.

And it was explained when, long afterwards, I learned his further history.

His mother was still living, and he knew it, although, with the reserve peculiar to his people, he never spoke of her to his young companions.