ude pine floor.

The boy then went to some shelves in the corner, just by the narrow
flight of steps which led to the old woman's room above, and taking
down a long Indian pipe, filled it with tobacco, and lit it. This
having been accomplished, he took his seat on a sort of wicker-work
bench, just outside of the door, and began to smoke with all the
gravity and seriousness of a Sachem of the Delawares.

In a moment he felt the hand of the old woman on his shoulder.

"Verty has been asleep and dreamed something," she said, calmly, in
the Delaware tongue.

"No, _ma mere_, Verty has been wide awake," said the boy, in the same
language.

"Then the winds have been talking to him."

"Hum," said Verty.

"Something is on my son's mind, and he has tied his heart up--_mal_!"

"No, no," said Verty, "I assure you, _ma mere_, I'm quite happy."

And having made this declaration, Verty stopped smoking and sighed.

The old woman heard this sigh, slight as it was, with the quick ear of
the Indian, and was evidently troubled by it.

"Has Verty seen the dove?" she said.

The young man nodded with a smile.

"Did they laugh?"

"They laughed."

"Did he come away singing?"

Verty hesitated, then said, with an overshadowed brow--

"No, no, _ma mere_--I really believe he did not."

The old woman pressed his hand between her own.

"Speak," she said, "the dove is not sick?"

Verty sighed.

"No; but she is going away," he said, "and Miss Lavinia would not tell
me where. What a hawk she is--oh! she shall not harm my dove!"

And Verty betook himself to gazing with shadowy eyes upon the sky. The
old Indian was silent for some time. Then she said--

"Trust in the Good Spirit, my son. We are not enough for ourselves.
We think we are strong and mighty, and can do everything; but a wind
blows us away. Listen, there is the wind in the pines, and look how it
is scattering the leaves. Men are like leaves--the breath of the Great
Spirit is the wind which scatters them."

And the old Indian woman gazed with much affection on the boy.

"What you say is worthy to be written on bark, mother," he said,
returning her affectionate glance; "the Great Spirit holds everything
in the hollow of his hand, and we are nothing. Going away!" added
Verty after a pause--"Going away!"

And he sighed.

"What did my son say?" asked the old woman.

"Nothing, _ma mere. Ah le bon temp que ce triste jour_!" he murmured.

The old woman's head droo