“Hush!” said Ronayne, making a sign to intimate that he was not to indulge in such observations.

But even the small quantity of wine he had taken was acting potently on the fast animating Indian.  “Dis no you squaw—­dis Waunangee squaw,” he said, with strong excitement of manner.  “Waunangee, see him beautiful, Waunangee got warm heart—­love him very much!”

“Tolerably well for a modest youth!” exclaimed the laughing Mrs. Elmsley.  “Who would have thought that one with those soft black eyes, more fitted for a woman than a man, would hazard so glowing a speech, after an acquaintance of barely five minutes?”

“Who says Chicago doesn’t abound in adventure?” sneered Von Vottenberg, as he arose and passed into the apartment of his patient.  “I shall certainly write a book about this when I get back into the civilized world, and entitle it ’The Loves of the Handsome Waunangee, and the Beautiful American.’”

“You had better write ’The Loves of the Fat Von Vottenberg, and his Mistress, Whisky Punch,’” remarked Ronayne, peevishly, for in spite of himself, he felt annoyed at an observation, which he thought delicacy might have spared.  “Come, Waunangee, my good friend, we must go.”

But the young Indian was not so easily led.  “Waunangee have him first dis nice squaw,” he said, with all that show of dogged obstinacy which so usually distinguishes his race, when under the influence of liquor, and bent upon the attainment of a particular object.

“Hear me, Waunangee,” replied the other, placing his hand upon his shoulder, and now, that Mrs. Elmsley only was present with his affianced, feeling less scruple in explaining to the young savage—­“that is my squaw—­my wife.”

“Why you no tell him so?” asked the youth, gravely, and with an air of reproach, while, at the same time, he fixed his soft and melancholy eyes upon Miss Heywood.  “Waunangee love officer’s squaw—­but Waunangee good heart.  Shake him hand, my friend,” he continued, walking up to her, and tendering his own, while, singular as it seemed to all, a tear dimmed his eye, and stole down his cheek.  “’Spose no Waunangee wife—­you Waunangee’s friend?”

The generous but trembling girl, shook cordially the hand that rested in her own, and assured the youth, in a way easily intelligible to him, that, as the friend of her husband, and she blushed deeply, as the moment afterwards she became sensible she had used a word, she could not but feel to be premature, she would always regard him with friendship and esteem.

“What a nice little scene we might get up out of this morning’s adventure,” said the ever gay Mrs. Elmsley, as Waunangee, after having shaken hands with herself, departed with Ronayne.  “Really, my dear, he is a fine looking, and certainly a warm-hearted fellow, that Wau—­Wan—­what’s his name, Maria?”

“Waunangee.  I know not how it is, Margaret, or why—­I should attach so much importance to the thing, but if ever those glimpses of the future, called presentiments, had foundation in truth, that young Indian is destined to exercise some sort of influence over my fate.”