Supper over they wandered out into the warm June twilight to watch for the evening stars before beginning the ceremonial meeting. “We’ll have the same stars as you do, anyhow,” said Hinpoha, “and when they come out we’ll think of each other, will you, Nyoda?”
“Indeed I will,” said Nyoda, heartily.
“And when Cassiopea comes out the W will stand for Winnebago,” added Gladys.
“And that long scraggly constellation will remind you of me,” said Katherine, and they all had to laugh in spite of their sadness.
By and by they wandered back to the House of the Open Door and Nyoda went up alone and left them standing before the door. Then pretty soon the signal bird calls floated up and Nyoda’s voice called down from above, saying, “Who’s there?” and they answered with the foolish passwords and countersigns that they loved because they were so foolish. One by one they climbed the ladder and took their places in the circle, their eyes on Nyoda, as she twirled the drill with the bow, kindling their last Council Fire. The spark came immediately and leapt into flame and kindled the fagots piled on the hearth. Feeling the spell of it as they never had before, they sang “Burn, Fire, Burn.”
Then came the last roll call. Nyoda’s voice lingered lovingly on each name: “Hinpoha; Sahwah; Geyahi (Gladys); Iagoonah; Medmangi; Nakwisi; Waban (Veronica).”
Migwan read the Count, written in her inimitable lilting metre, which touched on the many happy times they had had together, and ended,
“All too brief that Moon of Gladness,
Long shall be the years of parting!”
Then Hinpoha put her head on her knee with a stifled sob, and at that they all broke down and cried together, with their arms around Nyoda.