Judith and her sister were marked exceptions to all
the girls of their class, along that whole frontier; the officers
of the nearest garrison having often flattered the former with the
belief that few ladies of the towns acquitted themselves better
than herself, in this important particular. This was far from
being literally true, but it was sufficiently near the fact to give
birth to the compliment. The girls were indebted to their mother
for this proficiency, having acquired from her, in childhood,
an advantage that no subsequent study or labor can give without
a drawback, if neglected beyond the earlier periods of life. Who
that mother was, or rather had been, no one but Hutter knew. She
had now been dead two summers, and, as was stated by Hurry, she had
been buried in the lake; whether in indulgence of a prejudice, or
from a reluctance to take the trouble to dig her grave, had frequently
been a matter of discussion between the rude beings of that region.
Judith had never visited the spot, but Hetty was present at the
interment, and she often paddled a canoe, about sunset or by the
light of the moon, to the place, and gazed down into the limpid
water, in the hope of being able to catch a glimpse of the form
that she had so tenderly loved from infancy to the sad hour of
their parting.
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