Part 17 (1/2)

”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'erstan' 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 forced to leave our works unfinished. I may be called away thus, before the time comes when I may tell you what I want you to know. If so, you will find it all here.'

”My father took from the breast of his coat a small bundle wrapped in birch-bark and placed it in my hands.

”`Do not open it,' he said. `Do not show it to man or woman in the tribe. They could not understand, but if ever a white man comes here, _whom you feel that you can trust_, show it to him.'