“p.s.—u’ll fine rapped in paper in de top bundel sum caik dat am 4 u speshully, but u may let de oders hab 1 bite if u feels like it—member dat i’m prayin 4 u.
“p.s.—Doan eet 2 mutch ob de caik 2 wunst, or it’ll maik yo syck—it’ll B jus’ like you 2 gib it awl to de oders, but doan you doot! Eet mose ob it yosellf.
“p.s.—De caik am 4 yo speshully. Ise prayin’ 4 yo.
“p.s.—Doan forgot Ise prayin’ 4 yo. De caik am 4 yo.
“p.s.—De caik am yo’s—Ise prayin’ 4 yo.”
There was not the ghost of a smile on the face of the Shawanoe while carefully tracing the meaning of this crude writing. He gently refolded the paper, reached one hand within his hunting shirt, and, drawing out his Bible, put the folded paper between the leaves and replaced the book. Then, heedless of the clamor around him, he looked over the heads of the people at the lonely woman standing a little way off and watching him with manifest embarrassment.
Turning the head of his horse toward her, he deftly directed him through the throng and halted at the side of Aunt Dinah. She was so confused that she was on the point of making off, for nearly everyone was looking at the two, the action of Deerfoot having drawn attention to the couple. Leaning over his horse he extended his palm.
“Good-bye, Aunt Dinah.”
She bashfully reached up her big hard hand. He held it for a few moments, and, looking down in the ebon countenance, spoke in a low voice:
“Deerfoot thanks you; he is glad that you will pray to the Great Spirit for him, for he needs your prayers. Your promise is sweet to Deerfoot.”