n' good--deal," she returned, with a
hearty laugh at my expression.

I found on trial, however, that the girl's knowledge of English was so
slight that we could not readily converse in it. We therefore fell back
on the Indian tongue.

"I wish I had known your father, Waboose," I said earnestly. "He must
have been a very good man."

She looked at me gratefully.

"Yes," she returned, "he was _very_ good."

As she said this Waboose cast on me a look which I could not understand;
it was so intense, as if she were trying to read my thoughts, and at the
same time seemed mingled with doubt. Then, with some hesitation, she
said--

"My father left a secret with me. He told me never to show it to my
tribe, as they could not understand it--not even to my mother."

"What is the secret, Waboose?" I asked, seeing that she hesitated again
and looked at me with another of her searching glances.

"I do not know," she replied.

"It must indeed be a secret, if none of your people know it, and you
don't know it yourself," I returned with a peculiar smile.

"It is a written secret, I believe, but I--I--do not know. He told me
never to show it to any but a white man--to one whom I felt that I could
trust. May I trust _you_?" she asked, looking me full in the face.

The question naturally surprised as well as flattered me.

"You may trust me, Waboose," I said earnestly, laying my hand
involuntarily on my heart, "I would die rather than deceive or injure
you."

She seemed satisfied and resumed in a low tone--

"Not long before my dear father died he took me into the woods to walk
in a place that we were both fond of. We had long sweet talks in that
wood; sometimes walking under the trees, sometimes sitting on the
hill-tops, and always happy--very happy! One day he looked sad. He
took my hand as we sat together on a bank. He said, `I have sometimes
longed to open up all my heart to you, my rubbit,' (he was fond of
calling me by the English name), `but I cannot do so yet.'"

"`Why not, my father?' I asked.

"`Because--because--' he answered, `it could do no good, and it might do
harm. No, my rubbit, the time may come, but not now--not yet. Listen;
for your mother's sake I left the home of the pale-faces and came to
live with your tribe. For her sake I shall remain. But you know that
life is uncertain. We cannot tell when the Great Master of Life may
call us away. Sometimes he calls us suddenly and we are for