colour of the skin has nothing to do with it. The heart of the redskin
can love as deeply as that of the white man--both were made by the same
Great Master of Life."

The girl cast her eyes meditatively on the ground and murmured simply,
"It may be so."

The reader must not suppose that I expressed my meaning in the Indian
tongue during this conversation as clearly as I have set it down in
English. No doubt I mangled the sentences and confused the ideas sadly,
nevertheless Waboose seemed to have no difficulty in understanding me.
I had certainly none in comprehending her.

I was about to ask Waboose to relate the circumstances of her father's
death while in the act of rescuing her mother, but feeling that it might
cause her needless pain, and that I could get the details as easily from
some of the Indians, I asked her instead where her father came from.
She looked at me sadly as she replied--

"I cannot tell. My dear father had nothing to conceal from me but that.
On all other things his heart was open. He spoke to me of all the
wonders of this world, and of other places that my people know nothing
of, and of the great Master of Life, and of His Son Jesus, who came to
save us from evil, and of the countries where his white brothers live;
but when I asked him where he came from, he used to pat my head and
smile, and say that he would perhaps tell me one day, but not just then.
I shall never know it now."

"At all events you must know his name, Waboose?"

"His name was Weeum," replied the girl quickly.

"Was that all?"

"All," she replied with a quick look, "was not that enough?"

"Well, perhaps it was," I replied, scarce knowing what to say. "And why
did he give you the name of Waboose?" I asked.

"Because when I was small I was round and soft," replied the girl, with
a slight smile, "like the little animal of that name. He told me that
in his own language the animal is called rubbit."

"Rabbit, not rubbit," said I, with a laugh.

"My father taught me rubbit," returned Waboose, with a simple look, "and
he was _always_ right."

I felt that it would be useless to press my correction, and therefore
changed the subject by asking if her father had never tried to teach her
English. Immediately she answered, with a somewhat bashful air--

"Yes, a leetil."

"Why, you can _speak_ English, Waboose," I exclaimed, stopping and
looking down at her with increasing interest.

"No--note mush, but me un'ersta