“My father left a secret with me. He told me never to show it to my tribe, as they could not understand it—not even to my mother.”
“What is the secret, Waboose?” I asked, seeing that she hesitated again and looked at me with another of her searching glances.
“I do not know,” she replied.
“It must indeed be a secret, if none of your people know it, and you don’t know it yourself,” I returned with a peculiar smile.
“It is a written secret, I believe, but I—I—do not know. He told me never to show it to any but a white man—to one whom I felt that I could trust. May I trust you?” she asked, looking me full in the face.
The question naturally surprised as well as flattered me.
“You may trust me, Waboose,” I said earnestly, laying my hand involuntarily on my heart, “I would die rather than deceive or injure you.”
She seemed satisfied and resumed in a low tone—
“Not long before my dear father died he took me into the woods to walk in a place that we were both fond of. We had long sweet talks in that wood; sometimes walking under the trees, sometimes sitting on the hill-tops, and always happy—very happy! One day he looked sad. He took my hand as we sat together on a bank. He said, ‘I have sometimes longed to open up all my heart to you, my rubbit,’ (he was fond of calling me by the English name), ‘but I cannot do so yet.’”
“‘Why not, my father?’ I asked.