s attention, and he turned
toward it. A few steps, and he came to the margin of a small lake.
Several snow-white swans were floating on it; and near the edge of the
water, but concealed from the swans by the tall reeds that grew along
the shore, was his daughter, watching them.

She was attired in a simple dress of some oriental fabric. Her form
was small and delicately moulded; her long black hair fell in rich
masses about her shoulders; and her profile, turned toward him, was
sweetly feminine. The Indian type showed plainly, but was softened
with her mother's grace. Her face was sad, with large appealing eyes
and mournful lips, and full of haunting loveliness; a face whose
strange mournfulness was deepened by the splendor of its beauty; a
face the like of which is rarely seen, but once seen can never be
forgotten.

There was something despondent even in her pose, as she sat with her
shoulders drooping slightly forward and her dark eyes fixed absently
on the swans, watching them through the bending reeds. Now one uttered
its note, and she listened, seeming to vibrate to the deep, plaintive
cry; then she raised to her lips a flute that she held in her hands,
and answered it with a perfect intonation,--an intonation that
breathed the very spirit of the swan. So successful was the mimicry
that the swans replied, thinking it the cry of a hidden mate; and
again she softly, rhythmically responded.

"Wallulah!" said the chief.

She sprang to her feet and turned toward him. Her dark face lighted
with an expressive flash, her black eyes shone, her features glowed
with joy and surprise. It was like the breaking forth of an inner
illumination. There was now nothing of the Indian in her face.

"My father!" she exclaimed, springing to him and kissing his hand,
greeting him as her mother had taught her to do from childhood.
"Welcome! Were you searching for me?"

"Yes, you were well hidden, but Multnomah is a good hunter and can
always track the fawn to its covert," replied the chief, with the
faint semblance of a smile. All that there was of gentleness in his
nature came out when talking with his daughter.

"You have come from the council? Are you not weary and hungry? Come to
the lodge, and let Wallulah give you food, and spread a mat for you
to rest upon."

"No, I am hungry only to see Wallulah and hear her talk. Sit down on
the log again." She seated herself, and her father stood beside her
with an abstracted gaze, his