The poor girl caught it up, however, and began to kiss and caress it again.
Some time elapsed before her passionate grief was sufficiently subdued to permit of her listening to me. When it was nearly exhausted, and found vent only in an occasional sob, I took her hand gently and said—
“Give me the picture now, Waboose. I will wrap it up again, for I have much to say.”
Then, unfolding the last writing of the poor fellow whom the Indians had styled Weeum the Good, I slowly translated it into the Indian language. It was not an easy task; for, besides feeling that it stirred the heart of the listener with powerful emotions, I had great difficulty in taking my eyes off her changeful face, so as to read the manuscript.
“Now, Eve Liston—for that is your real name,” said I, when I had finished, “what do you think ought to be done?”
The girl did not reply at once, but sat so long with her hands clasped tightly on her lap, and her eyes fixed wistfully on the ground, that I had to repeat the question.
“What is to be done?” she replied, simply; “of course, what father wished to be done.”
“And are you ready to go with me to the far south to see your father’s mother? Can you trust me to protect you?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, with a straightforward look that almost disconcerted me; “have you not protected me well already?”
“And are you willing, Eve, to leave your tribe and go off alone with me?”