"I die some day. You understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

"You understand, Boston tilicum, you understand. What I want my boy to
become that I am for my boy. That you be."

"Yes, Umatilla, I believe an Indian's word--you may trust mine. I will be
to your boy what you may have him become. The Indian is true to his
friends. I believe in _you_. I will be true."

The old chief drew his blanket round him proudly.

"Boston tilicum," said he, "if ever the day of trouble comes, I will
protect you and the log school-house. You may trust my word. Indian speak
true."

The tall schoolmaster bowed.

"Nika atte cepa" (I like you much), said the chief. "Potlatch shall no
harm you. Klahyam klahhye--am!" (Good-by).

Mrs. Woods hurried homeward and tried to calm her excited mind by singing
a very heroic old hymn:

"Come on, my partners in distress,
My comrades in the wilderness,
Who still your bodies feel."

The blue skies gleamed before her, and overhead wheeled a golden eagle. To