“Yes, William,” said I; “but—”
“No—Weeum,” she said, correcting me. “Once or twice I have heard him say Willum, but all our people call him Weeum.”
“Had he no other name?” I asked.
“No. Why should he have another? Is not one enough?”
“You never heard of Liston?”
“Liston?—No, never.”
“Waboose,” said I, with sudden earnestness, “I am going to tell you something that will probably surprise you, and I will show you something that may give you pleasure—or pain—I know not which. You remember, that when I found the curious ornaments near to the stunted pine-tree, I asked you not to question me at that time about the packet you gave to me long ago. Well, the time has come when I ought to tell you all about it. But, first, look at this.”
I had taken from my pocket, while speaking to her, the miniature of her father, which I now handed to her. She fixed her eyes on it with a startled look, then sprang up with an exclamation, at the same time drawing one hand across her eyes, as if to clear away some mists that dimmed them. Eagerly she gazed again, with parted lips and heaving bosom, then burst into a passionate flood of tears, pressing the miniature alternately to her lips and to her heart.
I stood helplessly gazing at her—anxious to comfort but unable.
“Oh! why, why,” she cried, suddenly dropping the miniature, “why do you mock me with this? It is so little, yet so like. It looks alive, but it is dead. It is nothing—a mockery!”