it. But what put that thought into your head?"

"Mrs. Spaulding, the missionary, has been to visit the school. She sang so
beautifully! These were the words:

"'In the desert let me labor,
On the mountain let me tell.'

"When she sung that, it all came to me--what I was--what I was sent into
the world to do--what was the cause of your loving me and bringing me out
here--I saw a plan in it all. Then, too, it came to me that you would at
first not see the calling as I do, but that you would say _nevertheless_,
and help me, and that we would work together, and do some good in the
world, you and I. Oh! I saw it all."

"Gretchen, did you see all that? Do you think that the spirit has eyes,
and that they see true? But how could I begin? The Injuns all hate me."

"Make them love you."

"How?"

"Say _nevertheless_ to them."

"Well, Gretchen, you are a good girl, and I am sorry for the hard things
that I have said. I do not feel that I have shown just the right spirit
toward Benjamin. But he has said that he will not do me any harm, for the
sake of his master, and I am willin' to give up my will for my Master. It
is those that give up their desires that have their desires in this world,
and anybody who does an injury to another makes for himself a judgment-day
of some sort. You may tell Benjamin that I am real sorry for bein' hard to
him, and that, if he will come over and see me, I'll give him a carved
pipe that husband made. Now, Gretchen, you may go, and I'll sit down and
think a spell. I'll be dreadful lonely when you're gone."

Gretchen kissed her foster-mother at the door, and said:

"Your new spirit, mother, will make us both so happy in the future! We'll
work together. What the master teaches me, I'll teach you."

"What--books?"

"Yes."

"O Gretchen, your heart is real good! But see here--my hair is gray. Oh, I
am sorry--what a woman I might have been!"

Gretchen lay down in the lodge that night beside the dusky wife of the
old chief. The folds of the tent were open, and the cool winds came in
from the Columbia, under the dim light of the moon and stars.

The _tepee_, or tent, was made of skins, and was adorned with
picture-writing--Indian poetry (if so it might be called). Overhead were
clusters of beautiful feathers and wings of birds. The old chief loved to
tell her stories of these strange and beautiful wings. There were the
wings of the condor, of the bald and the golden eagle, of the duc