“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, is everything.  He will do all for the best.”

“Oh, yes,” the young man said, as they turned toward Apple Orchard house again, “I am getting to do that—­and I pray now, Redbud,” he added, looking toward the sky, “I pray to the Great Spirit, as we call him—­”

Redbud looked greatly delighted, and said: 

“That is better than all; I do not see how any one can live without praying.”

“I used to,” Verty replied.

“It was so wrong.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And Verty gazed at the sunset with his dreamy, yet kindling eyes.

“If there is a Great Spirit, we ought to talk to him,” he said, “and tell him what we want, and ask him to make us good; I think so at least—­”

“Indeed we should.”

“Then,” continued Verty, “if that is true, we ought to think whether there is or is not such a spirit.  There may be people in towns who don’t believe there is—­but I am obliged to.  Look at the sun, Redbud—­the beautiful sun going away like a great torch dying out;—­and look at the clouds, as red as if a thousand deer had come to their death, and poured their blood out in a river!  Look at the woods here, every color of the bow in the cloud, and the streams, and rocks, and all!  There must be a Great Spirit who loves men, or he never would have made the world so beautiful.”

Verty paused, and they went on slowly.

“We love him because he first loved us,” said Redbud, thoughtfully.

“Yes, and what a love it must have been.  Oh me!” said the young man, “I sometimes think of it until my heart is melted to water, and my eyes begin to feel heavy.  What love it was!—­and if we do not love in return, what punishment is great enough for such a crime!”