My sister Louise began to cry, and informed him they had learned the news some weeks since.
Then turning to me, he said, "Come in, Jim, and see your sister cry for you."
I advanced, and addressed her in my old familiar manner, "How do you do, Lou?"
I must have been a curious looking object for an affectionate sister to recognize. All my clothing consisted of dressed antelope, deer, and the skins of mountain sheep, highly ornamented by my Indian wives. My long hair, as black as the raven's wing, descended to my hips, and I presented more the appearance of a Crow than that of a civilized being.
She gazed at me for a moment with a searching look, and then exclaiming, "My God, it is my brother!" she flew into my arms, and was for some time unable to speak.
At length she said, "We received a letter informing us of your death, and that Mr. Tulleck had seen you borne into Fort Cass dead."
My elder sister, Matilda, was upstairs, entertaining a few female friends, and Lou bounded upstairs to acquaint her that her brother James wished to speak to her.
Thinking her to be jesting, she said, "Are you not ashamed of yourself to jest on such a subject?" and she shed tears at thus having me recalled to remembrance.
Louise asseverated her earnestness, and Matilda reproved her for her wantonness, but would not budge to go and see for herself. At length a Mrs. Le Févre said,
"Matilda, I believe she is in earnest, and if you do not go and see, I will."
She had been a child with me, and we used to repeat our catechism together; now she was married, and the mother of several children.
She came tripping downstairs into my sister's apartment, making a ceremonious courtesy as she entered. My sister introduced her to me, asking me if I did not recollect my commere (for we were baptized together). I had forgotten her, but the mention of this circumstance recalled her to my mind, and there was another embracing.
Her faith being thus confirmed, my sister Matilda was called
