“Is it not glorious!” I exclaimed. “Should we not be grateful to the Great Spirit who has given us such a splendid home?”
Waboose looked at me. “Yes, it is glorious,” she said—“and I am grateful; but it is strange that you should use the very same words that were so often on the lips of my father just before he—”
She stopped abruptly.
“Just before he went home, Eve,” I interposed; “no need to say died. Your father is not dead, but sleepeth. You shall meet him again. But it is not very strange that men should use the same words when they are animated by the same love to the Great Spirit.”
The girl raised her large eyes with a perplexed, inquiring look.
“What troubles you, Eve?” I asked.
“Eve!” she repeated, almost anxiously. “Twice you have called me by a name that father sometimes used, though not often, and when he used it he always spoke low and very tenderly.”
I felt somewhat perplexed as to how I should reply, and finally took refuge in another question.
“Tell me, Waboose,” said I, “did your father ever tell you his own name?”
“Of course he did,” she answered, with a look of surprise—“you know well it was Weeum.”