My father's dwelling was on the outer limits of the round-faced village.
With every heartthrob I grew more impatient to enter the wigwam.

While I turned the leaves of my Bible with nervous fingers, the
medicine-man came forth from the dwelling and walked hurriedly away. His
head and face were closely covered with the loose robe which draped his
entire figure.

He was tall and large. His long strides I have never forgot. They seemed
to me then the uncanny gait of eternal death. Quickly pocketing my
Bible, I went into the tepee.

Upon a mat lay my father, with furrowed face and gray hair. His eyes and
cheeks were sunken far into his head. His sallow skin lay thin upon his
pinched nose and high cheekbones. Stooping over him, I took his fevered
hand. "How, Ate?" I greeted him. A light flashed from his listless eyes
and his dried lips parted. "My son!" he murmured, in a feeble voice.
Then again the wave of joy and recognition receded. He closed his eyes,
and his hand dropped from my open palm to the ground.

Looking about, I saw an old woman sitting with bowed head. Shaking hands
with her, I recognized my mother. I sat down between my father and
mother as I used to do, but I did not feel at home. The place where my
old grandmother used to sit was now unoccupied. With my mother I bowed
my head. Alike our throats were choked and tears were streaming from our
eyes; but far apart in spirit our ideas and faiths separated us. My
grief was for the soul unsaved; and I thought my mother wept to see a
brave man's body broken by sickness.