name!--'Low Dorman.'"

"You mean 'L'Eau Dormante,'" said Nellie.

"That's what I said. The chief called him 'Sleeping Water' when he was a
boy, and one of them French Canadian trappers translated it into French
when he brought him to California to school. But he's an Injin, sure. No
wonder he prefers to live in the woods."

"Well?" said Nellie.

"Well," echoed her father impatiently, "he's an Injin, I tell you, and
you can't of course have anything to do with him. He mustn't come here
again."

"But you forget," said Nellie imperturbably, "that it was you who
invited him here, and were so much exercised over him. You remember
you introduced him to the Bishop and those Eastern clergymen as a
magnificent specimen of a young Californian. You forget what an occasion
you made of his coming to church on Sunday, and how you made him come in
his buckskin shirt and walk down the street with you after service!"

"Yes, yes," said the Rev. Mr. Wynn, hurriedly.

"And," continued Nellie carelessly, "how you made us sing out of the
same book 'Children of our Father's Fold,' and how you preached at him
until he actually got a color!"

"Yes," said her father; "but it wasn't known then he was an Injin, and
they are frightfully unpopular with those Southwestern men among whom we