, correcting me. "Once or twice I have heard him
say Willum, but all our people call him Weeum."

"Had he no other name?" I asked.

"No. Why should he have another? Is not one enough?"

"You never heard of Liston?"

"Liston?--No, never."

"Waboose," said I, with sudden earnestness, "I am going to tell you
something that will probably surprise you, and I will show you something
that may give you pleasure--or pain--I know not which. You remember,
that when I found the curious ornaments near to the stunted pine-tree, I
asked you not to question me at that time about the packet you gave to
me long ago. Well, the time has come when I ought to tell you all about
it. But, first, look at this."

I had taken from my pocket, while speaking to her, the miniature of her
father, which I now handed to her. She fixed her eyes on it with a
startled look, then sprang up with an exclamation, at the same time
drawing one hand across her eyes, as if to clear away some mists that
dimmed them. Eagerly she gazed again, with parted lips and heaving
bosom, then burst into a passionate flood of tears, pressing the
miniature alternately to her lips and to her heart.

I stood helplessly gazing at her--anxious to comfort but unable.

"Oh! why, why," she cried, suddenly dropping the miniature, "why do you
mock me with this? It is so little, yet so like. It looks alive, but
it is dead. It is nothing--a mockery!"

The poor girl caught it up, however, and began to kiss and caress it
again.

Some time elapsed before her passionate grief was sufficiently subdued
to permit of her listening to me. When it was nearly exhausted, and
found vent only in an occasional sob, I took her hand gently and said--

"Give me the picture now, Waboose. I will wrap it up again, for I have
much to say."

Then, unfolding the last writing of the poor fellow whom the Indians had
styled Weeum the Good, I slowly translated it into the Indian language.
It was not an easy task; for, besides feeling that it stirred the heart
of the listener with powerful emotions, I had great difficulty in taking
my eyes off her changeful face, so as to read the manuscript.

"Now, Eve Liston--for that is your real name," said I, when I had
finished, "what do you think ought to be done?"

The girl did not reply at once, but sat so long with her hands clasped
tightly on her lap, and her eyes fixed wistfully on the ground, that I
had to repeat the question.

"What is t