“I will be a friend to you, Benjamin.”

“Yes, Boston tilicum, we will be friends.”

“And I will teach you how to be noble—­like a king.  You felt good when I was kind to you?”

“Yes, Boston tilicum.”

“And when the music played?”

“Yes, Boston tilicum.”

“Then you must be good to her; that will make her feel good toward you.  Do you see?”

There came a painful look into the young Indian’s face.

“I good to her, make her good?  She good to me make me good?  She no good to me.  She say I no right here.  The land belong to Umatilla.  She must go.  You stay.  Look out for the October moon.  She wah-wah no more.”

“It is noble to be good; it makes others good.”

“Then why isn’t she good?  She make me ugly; you make me good.  I think I will punish her—­pil-pil; then you speak kind, and the music play, then I think I will punish her not.  Then dark thoughts come back again; clouds come again; hawks fly.  What me do?  Me am two selves; one self when I think of you, one when I think of her.  She say I have no right.  She have no right.  All right after Potlatch.  I wah-wah; she wah-wah no more.”

“Be good yourself, Benjamin.  Be kind to her; make her kind.  You do right.”

The young Indian hesitated, then answered: 

“I do as you say.  You are friend.  I’ll do as I feel when the music play.  I try.  So you say.”

The cloud passed.  The teacher paid the Indian boy special attention that morning.  At noon Gretchen played Von Weber’s Wild Hunt of Lutzow, which drove Napoleon over the Rhine.  The rhythm of the music picturing the heroic cavalry enchanted Benjamin, and he said:  “Play it over again.”  After the music came a foot-race among the boys, which Benjamin easily won.  The afternoon passed quietly, until in the cool, lengthening shadows of the trail the resolute form of Mrs. Woods appeared.

Benjamin saw her, and his calm mood fled.  He looked up at the master.

“I is come back again—­my old self again.  She say I no business here; she no business here.  She wah-wah.”

The master laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder kindly and bent his face on his.

“I do as you say,” the boy continued.  “I will not speak till my good self come again.  I be still.  No wah-wah.”

He dropped his eyes upon a page in the book, and sat immovable.  He was a noble picture of a struggle for self-control in a savage and untutored heart.

Mrs. Woods asked for Gretchen at the door, and the master excused the girl, thanking her for the music that had delighted the school at the noon-hour.  As she was turning to go, Mrs. Woods cast a glance toward Benjamin, and said to the master in an undertone:  “He’s tame now—­quiet as a purring cat.  The cat don’t lick cream when the folks are around.  But he’ll make trouble yet.  An Injun is a Injun.  I hate Injuns, though Parson Lee says I am all wrong.  When you have seen as many of ’em as I have, you’ll know more than you do now.”