s
danger in the air.

"The October moon will come. It will grow. It will turn into a sun on the
border of the night. Then come Potlatch. My people ask for the Dance of
the Evil One. I no consent--it means graves.

"Let me have _her_ a moon--she play on the air. She play at the Potlatch
for me. She stand by my side. The Great Spirit speak through her. Indians
listen. They will think of little ones, they will think of departed ones,
they will think of the hunt--they will see graves. Then the night will
pass. Then the smoke will rise again from white man's cabin. Then I die
in peace, and go home to the Great Spirit and rest. Will you let me have
her? I _have_ spoken."

Mrs. Woods comprehended the figurative speech. The old chief wished to
take Gretchen to his wigwam for a month, and have her play the violin on
the great night of the Potlatch. He hoped that the influence of the music
would aid him in preventing the Dance of the Evil Spirits, and a massacre
of the white settlers. What should she say?

"I will talk with Gretchen," she said. "You mean well. I can trust you. We
will see."

He rose slowly, leaning on his staff, and emptied his pipe. It required a
resolute will now to cause his withered limbs to move. But his steps
became free after a little walking, and he moved slowly away. Poor old
chief of the Cascades! It was something like another Sermon on the Mount
that he had spoken, but he knew not how closely his heart had caught the
spirit of the Divine Teacher.

When Gretchen came home from school, Mrs. Woods told her what had
happened, and what the old chief had asked.

Mr. Woods had returned from the block-houses. He said: "Gretchen, go!
Your _Traumerei_ will save the colony. Go!"

Gretchen sat in silence for a moment. She then said: "I can trust
Umatilla. I will go. I want to go. Something unseen is leading me--I feel
it. I do not know the way, but I can trust my guide. I have only one
desire, if I am young, and that is to do right. But is it right to leave
you, mother?"

"Mother!" how sweet that word sounded to poor Mrs. Woods! She had never
been a mother. Tears filled her eyes--she forced them back.

"Yes, Gretchen--go. I've always had to fight my way through the world, and
I can continue to do so. I've had some things to harden my heart; but, no
matter what you may do, Gretchen, I'll always be a mother to _you_. You'll
always find the latch-string on the outside. You ain't the wust girl that
ever w