g him. I dwelt with him and his
people for a time, and pressed him to accept salvation through Jesus,
but he refused. The Holy Spirit had not opened his eyes, yet I felt and
still feel assured that that time will come. But it has not come yet,
if all that I have heard of him be true. You may depend upon it,
however, that he did not shoot me knowingly."

Both Little and Big Tim by their looks showed that their belief in
Rushing River's future reformation was very weak, though they said
nothing, and the Indians maintained such imperturbable gravity that
their looks gave no indication as to the state of their minds.

"My white father's hopes and desires are good," said Whitewing, after
another long pause, during which the missionary closed his eyes, and
appeared to be resting, and Tim and his son looked gravely at each
other, for that rest seemed to them strongly to resemble death. "And
now what does my father propose to do?"

"My course is clear," answered the wounded man, opening his eyes with a
bright, cheerful look. "I cannot move. Here God has placed me, and
here I must remain till--till I get well. All the action must be on
your part, Whitewing, and that of your friends. But I shall not be idle
or useless as long as life and breath are left to enable me to pray."

There was another decided note of approval from the Indians, for they
had already learned the value of prayer.

"The first step I would wish you to take, however," continued the
missionary, "is to go and bring to this hut my sweet friend Brighteyes
and your own mother, Whitewing, who, you tell me, is still alive."

"The loved old one still lives," returned the Indian.

"Lives!" interposed Little Tim, with emphasis, "I should think she does,
an' flourishes too, though she _has_ shrivelled up a bit since you saw
her last. Why, she's so old now that we've changed her name to
Live-for-ever. She sleeps like a top, an' feeds like a grampus, an'
does little else but laugh at what's goin' on around her. I never did
see such a jolly old girl in all my life. Twenty years ago--that time,
you remember, when Whitewing carried her off on horseback, when the
village was attacked--we all thought she was on her last legs, but,
bless you sir, she can still stump about the camp in a tremblin' sort o'
way, an' her peepers are every bit as black as those of my own
Brighteyes, an' they twinkle a deal more."

"Your account of her," returned the preacher, with