And the old Indian woman gazed with much affection on the boy.

“What you say is worthy to be written on bark, mother,” he said, returning her affectionate glance; “the Great Spirit holds everything in the hollow of his hand, and we are nothing.  Going away!” added Verty after a pause—­“Going away!”

And he sighed.

“What did my son say?” asked the old woman.

“Nothing, ma mere.  Ah le bon temp que ce triste jour!” he murmured.

The old woman’s head drooped.

“My son does not speak with a straight tongue,” she said; “his words are crooked.”

“Non non” said Verty, smiling; “but I am a little unwell, ma mere.  All the way coming along, I felt my breast weighed down—­my heart was oppressed.  Look! even Longears knows I’m not the Verty of the old time.”

Longears, who was standing at the door in a contemplative attitude, fancied that his master called him, and, coming up, licked Verty’s hand affectionately.

“Good Longears!” said.  Verty, caressing him, “lie down at my feet.”

Longears obeyed with much dignity, and was soon basking in the sunlight before the door.

“Now, ma mere” Verty said, with his habitual smile, “we have been calling for the clouds to come up, and shut out the sun; let us call for the sunlight next.  You know I am your Verty, and every day as I grow, I get able to do more for you.  I shall, some day, make a number of pistoles—­who knows?—­and then think how much I could buy for you.  Good mother!—­happy Verty!”

And taking the old woman’s hand, Verty kissed it.

Then, leaning back, he reached through the window, and took down a rude violin, and began to play an old air of the border, accompanying the tune with a low chant, in the Indian fashion.

The old woman looked at him for some moments with great affection, a sad smile lighting up her aged features; then saying in a low tone, as if to herself, “good Verty!” went into the house.

Verty played for some time longer.  Tired at last of his violin, he laid it down, and with his eyes fixed upon the sand at his feet, began to dream.  As he mused, his large twilight eyes slowly drooped their long lashes, which rested finally on the ruddy cheek.

For some moments, Verty amused himself tracing figures on the sand near Longears’ nose, causing that intelligent animal to growl in his sleep, and fight imaginary foes with his paws.

From the window, the old Indian woman watched the young man with great affection, her lips moving, and her eyes, at times, raised toward the sky.

Verty reclined more and more in his wicker seat; the scenes and images of the day were mingled together in his mind, and became a dim wrack of cloud; his tangled hair shaded his face from the sun; and, overcome by weariness, the boy sank back, smiling even in his sleep.  As he did so, the long-stemmed Indian pipe fell from his hand across Longears’ nose, half covering the letters he had traced with it on the sand.