The old woman pressed his hand between her own.

"Speak," she said, "the dove is not sick?"

Verty sighed.

"No; but she is going away," he said, "and Miss Lavinia would not tell
me where. What a hawk she is--oh! she shall not harm my dove!"

And Verty betook himself to gazing with shadowy eyes upon the sky. The
old Indian was silent for some time. Then she said--

"Trust in the Good Spirit, my son. We are not enough for ourselves.
We think we are strong and mighty, and can do everything; but a wind
blows us away. Listen, there is the wind in the pines, and look how it
is scattering the leaves. Men are like leaves--the breath of the Great
Spirit is the wind which scatters them."

And the old Indian woman gazed with much affection on the boy.

"What you say is worthy to be written on bark, mother," he said,
returning her affectionate glance; "the Great Spirit holds everything
in the hollow of his hand, and we are nothing. Going away!" added
Verty after a pause--"Going away!"

And he sighed.

"What did my son say?" asked the old woman.

"Nothing, _ma mere. Ah le bon temp que ce triste jour_!" he murmured.