tender, mournful,
happy memorials;--whose breezes fan our weary brows so often as we go
on over the thorny path, once a path of flowers. They were once
more children, and they wandered thus through the beautiful forest,
collecting their memories, laughing here, sighing there--and giving an
association or a word to every feature of the little landscape.

"How many things I remember," Verty said, thoughtfully, and smiling;
"there, where Milo, the good dog, was buried, and a shot fired over
him--there, where we treed the squirrel--and over yonder, by the run,
which I used to think flowed by from fairy land--I remember so many
things!"

"Yes--I do too," replied the girl, thoughtfully, bending her head.

"How singular it is that an Indian boy like me should have been
brought up here," Verty said, buried in thought; "I think my life is
stranger than what they call a romance."

Redbud made no reply.

"_Ma mere_ would never tell me anything about myself," the young man
went on, wistfully, "and I can't know anything except from her. I must
be a Dacotah or a Delaware."

Redbud remained thoughtful for some moments, then raising her head,
said:

"I do not believe you are an Indian, Verty. There is some mystery
about you which I think the old Indian woman should tell. She
certainly is not your mother," said Redbud, with a little smiling air
of dogmatism.

"I don't know," Verty replied, "but I wish I did know. I used to be
proud of being an Indian, but since I have grown up, and read how
wicked they were, I wish I was not.

"You are not."

"Well, I think so, too," he replied; "I am not a bit like _ma mere_,
who has long, straight black hair, and a face the color of that
maple--dear _ma mere_!--while I have light hair, always getting rolled
up. My face is different, too--I mean the color--I am sun-burned, but
I remember when my face was very white."

And Verty smiled.

"I would ask her all about it," Redbud said.

"I think I will," was the reply; "but she don't seem to like it,
Redbud--it seems to worry her."

"But it is important to you, Verty."

"Yes, indeed it is."

"Ask her this evening."

"Do you advise me?"

"Yes. I think you ought to; indeed I do."

"Well, I will," Verty said; "and I know when _ma mere_ understands
that I am not happy as long as she does not tell me everything, she
will speak to me."

"I think so, too," said Redbud; "and now, Verty, there is one thing
more--trust in God, you know,