the quiet little tap at the door. It
could be given by no other hand west of the Rockies save that of my
old friend The Klootchman. I dropped a lap full of work and sprang
to open the door; for the slanting rains were chill outside, albeit
the December grass was green and the great masses of English ivy
clung wet and fresh as in summer about the low stone wall that ran
between my verandah and the street.

"Kla-how-ya, Tillicum," I greeted, dragging her into the warmth and
comfort of my "den," and relieving her of her inseparable basket,
and removing her rain-soaked shawl. Before she spoke she gave that
peculiar gesture common to the Indian woman from the Atlantic
to the Pacific. She lifted both hands and with each forefinger
smoothed gently along her forehead from the parting of her hair to
the temples. It is the universal habit of the red woman, and simply
means a desire for neatness in her front locks.

I busied myself immediately with the teakettle, for, like all her
kind, The Klootchman dearly loves her tea.

The old woman's eyes sparkled as she watched the welcome brewing,
while she chatted away in half English, half Chinook, telling me
of her doings in all these weeks that I had not seen her. But it
was when I handed her a huge old-fashioned breakfast cup fairly
brimming with tea as strong as lye that she really described her
journeyings.

She had been north to the Skeena River, south to the great "Fair"
at Seattle, but, best of all seemingly to her, was her trip into
the interior. She had been up the trail to Lillooet in the great
"Cariboo" country. It was my turn then to have sparkling eyes, for
I traversed that inexpressibly beautiful trail five years ago, and
the delight of that journey will remain with me for all time.

"And, oh! Tillicum," I cried, "have your good brown ears actually
listened to the call of the falls across the canyon--the Falls of
Lillooet?"

"My ears have heard them whisper, laugh, weep," she replied in
Chinook.

"Yes," I answered, "they do all those things. They have magic
voices--those dear, far-off falls!"

At the word "magic" her keen eyes snapped, she set her empty cup
aside and looked at me solemnly.

"Then you know the story--the strange tale?" she asked almost
whisperingly.

I shook my head. This was always the crucial moment with my
Klootchman, when her voice lowers, and she asks if you know things.
You must be diplomatic, and never question her in turn. If you do