"O Mr. Mann, I am all alone in the world, and what am I goin' to do? There's nothin' but hard days' work left to me now, and—hymns. Even Father Lee has gone, and I have no one to advise me. You will be a friend to me, won't you?"
"Yes," said Mr. Mann. "I need you, and the way is clear."
"What do you mean?"
"I have a letter from Boston."
"What is it, Marlowe Mann?"
"The Indian Educational Society have promised me a thousand dollars for my work another year. I must have a house. I would want you to take charge of it. But—your tongue?"
"O Master Mann, I'll give up my tongue! I'll just work, and be still. If an Injun will give up his revenge, an' it's his natur', ought not I to give up my tongue? When I can't help scoldin' I'll just sing hymns."
Mr. Mann gazed into the faces of the Indians. The warm sunlight fell upon them. There was a long silence, broken only by the scream of the eagles in the sky and the passing of flocks of wild geese. Then one of the Indians rose and said:
"Umatilla has gone to his fathers.
"Benjamin has gone to his fathers. We shall never see Young Eagle's plume again!