"Ah, yes, I a man Indian," returned the youth, in a regretful tone; "that is, my father is a red man, and my mother was a pale-face."
"Is your mother dead?"
He bowed.
"And your father?"
"Is living, I suppose; though I may never behold his face again."
The young man looked around the wigwam, and drew a heavy sigh, as he spoke thus.
Nattie pitied him.
"Why may you not see your father?" she asked.
"He is angry with me," was the response.
"He may not always be so."
"Ah, the Indian is slow to forgive. He has laid his commands upon me. I am to obey them, or see him no more."
"Does he wish you to do any bad or wicked thing, then?" asked Nattie.
"He wishes me to do that which I think would
