come again as soon as you can."

Loud expressions of approval greeted these words of the chief. When he
had finished, I said, "I want to hear from others, and I want your own
views on these important things." Many responded to my request, and,
with the exception of an old conjurer or two, who feared for their
occupation, all spoke in the same strain as did the head chief. The
last to speak was an old man with grizzly hair, and wild, excited
movements. He was a queer, savage-looking man, and came from the rear
of the company to the front with strange springy movements. His hair
was braided, and reached to his knees. Threading his way through the
audience, he came up close to me, and then, pushing his fingers into his
hair as far as its braided condition would allow, he exclaimed in a tone
full of earnestness, "Missionary, once my hair was as black as a crow's
wing, now it is getting white. Grey hairs here, and grandchildren in
the wigwam, tell me that I am getting to be an old man; and yet I never
before heard such things as you have told us to-day. I am so glad I did
not die before I heard this wonderful story. Yet I am getting old.
Grey hairs here, and grandchildren yonder, tell the story. Stay as long
as you can, Missionary, tell us much of these things, and when you have
to go away, come back soon, for I have grandchildren, and I have grey
hairs, and may not live many winters more. Do come back soon."

He turned as though he would go back to his place and sit down; but he
only went a step or two ere he turned round and faced me, and said,
"Missionary, may I say more?"

"Talk on," I said. "I am here now to listen."

"You said just now, `Notawenan.'" ("Our Father.")

"Yes," I said, "I did say, `Our Father.'"

"That is very new and sweet to us," he said. "We never thought of the
Great Spirit as Father: we heard Him in the thunder, and saw Him in the
lightning, and tempest; and blizzard, and we were afraid. So, when you
tell us of the Great Spirit as Father, that is very beautiful to us."

Hesitating a moment, he stood there, a wild, picturesque Indian, yet my
heart had strangely gone out in loving interest and sympathy to him.

Lifting up his eyes to mine, again he said, "May I say more?"

"Yes," I answered, "say on."

"You say, `Notawenan'." ("_Our_ Father"). "He is your Father?"

"Yes, He is my Father."

Then he said, while his eyes and voice yearned for the answer, "Does it
mean He is my