The reader must not suppose that I expressed my meaning in the Indian tongue during this conversation as clearly as I have set it down in English. No doubt I mangled the sentences and confused the ideas sadly, nevertheless Waboose seemed to have no difficulty in understanding me. I had certainly none in comprehending her.
I was about to ask Waboose to relate the circumstances of her father’s death while in the act of rescuing her mother, but feeling that it might cause her needless pain, and that I could get the details as easily from some of the Indians, I asked her instead where her father came from. She looked at me sadly as she replied—
“I cannot tell. My dear father had nothing to conceal from me but that. On all other things his heart was open. He spoke to me of all the wonders of this world, and of other places that my people know nothing of, and of the great Master of Life, and of His Son Jesus, who came to save us from evil, and of the countries where his white brothers live; but when I asked him where he came from, he used to pat my head and smile, and say that he would perhaps tell me one day, but not just then. I shall never know it now.”
“At all events you must know his name, Waboose?”
“His name was Weeum,” replied the girl quickly.
“Was that all?”
“All,” she replied with a quick look, “was not that enough?”
“Well, perhaps it was,” I replied, scarce knowing what to say. “And why did he give you the name of Waboose?” I asked.
“Because when I was small I was round and soft,” replied the girl, with a slight smile, “like the little animal of that name. He told me that in his own language the animal is called rubbit.”
“Rabbit, not rubbit,” said I, with a laugh.