One day the pack of wolves came near the villages, and the little boy saw his brother fishing and his sister weaving under a tree.  He drew near them, and they recognized him.

“Come to us, little brother,” said they, sorry that they had left him to the animals.

“No—­no!” said he.  “I would rather be a wolf.  The wolves have been kinder to me than you.

    “My brother,
     My brother,
     I am turning—­
     am turning
     Into a wolf. 
      You made me so!

    “My sister,
     My sister,
     I am turning—­
     I am turning
     Into a wolf. 
      You made me so!”

“O little brother, forgive me,” said the sister; “forgive me!”

“It is too late now.  See, I am a wolf!”

He howled, and ran away with the pack of wolves, and they never saw him again.

* * * * *

“Jason Lee, be good to my people when I am gone, lest they become like the little brother.

“Victor Trevette, be good to my people when I am gone, lest they become like the little brother.”

The tall form of Marlowe Mann now appeared before the open entrance of the lodge.  The Yankee schoolmaster had been listening to the story.  The old chief bent his eye upon him, and said, “And, Boston tilicum, do you be good to Benjamin when I am gone, so that he shall not become like the little brother.”

“You may play, Gretchen, now—­it is a solemn hour; the voices of the gods should speak.”

Gretchen took her violin.  Standing near the door of the tent, she raised it to her arm, and the strains of some old German music rose in the glimmering air, and drifted over the Columbia.

“I think that there are worlds around this,” said the old chief.  “The Great Spirit is good.”

The sun was going down.  High in the air the wild fowls were flying, with the bright light yet on their wings.  The glaciers of Mount Hood were flushed with crimson—­a sea of glass mingled with fire.  It was a pastoral scene; in it the old history of Oregon was coming to an end, after the mysteries of a thousand years, and the new history of civilization was beginning.

Evening came, and the company dispersed, but the old chief and Gretchen sat down outside of the tent, and listened to the murmuring music of the Dalles of the Columbia, and breathed the vital air.  The Columbia is a mile wide in some places, but it narrows at the Dalles, or shelves and pours over the stone steps the gathered force of its many tides and streams.  Across the river a waterfall filled the air with misty beauty, and a castellated crag arose solitary and solemn—­the remnant of some great upheaval in the volcanic ages.

[Illustration:  A castellated crag arose solitary and solemn.]

The red ashes of the sunset lingered after the fires of the long day had gone down, and the stars came out slowly.  The old chief was sad and thoughtful.