“May I write to your mother from my Oregon home, when I get there, and tell her all I know about you?” “Isn’t that an odd request, Miss Ranger?” Jean blushed to the tips of her ears. “Nobody ever called me Miss Ranger before,” she said, to hide her confusion. “My sister Mary is the Miss Ranger of our family. Yes, I did make an unusual request; but I thought of your mother pining for news of her son, and fancied she might be glad to hear about him, even from a stranger. But I see that it would hardly be proper for me to write; so please do it yourself.” “Write to her by all means, Miss Ranger, as I assure you I surely will. And now,” he added, rising, “I hear your Indian maid tapping outside, and it is time to say good-night. I trust you will sleep well and have pleasant dreams.” “Good-night, Mr. Ashleigh. I thank you ever so much for all your kindness.” XXVI _LE-LE, THE INDIAN GIRL_ “Nika klosh cloochman!” clucked the Indian girl. Jean looked at her inquiringly. “Nika wake cumtux Siwah wa-wa?” asked the dusky maiden, offering her hand. “She says she is a good Indian girl, and asks if you understand her,” said Siwash, who was leisurely putting the room to rights. “She’s my little sister; heap good. Ugh! Nika speak jargon?” “No, Siwash.” But the maiden’s manner, though coy, was assuring, and Jean clasped her hand eagerly. She was a graceful, nimble, and pretty creature; and Jean thought with a sigh of regret of the ugly transformation awaiting her under the cares and burdens of maturity and maternity, when, no longer like “the wild gazelle, with its nimble feet,” she would resemble other elderly Indian women. “What is your name, little girl?” she asked, as the maiden dropped gracefully upon the hearth at her feet. “Nika wake cumtux Boston wa-wa.” “She says she doesn’t understand you,” grunted Siwash. “Ah-to-ke-nika a-it sewar.” “She says she has a good heart.” “Why doesn’t she speak her name?” The girl crouched low on the hearth and spread her shapely brown fingers before the dying embers. “Nika Le-Le. Nika caid.” “She says her name is Le-Le, and she is a slave.” “Your sister? and a slave?” “I, too, was a slave,” said Siwash, “but I bought my freedom; and when I get ten horses of my own, I will buy Le-Le’s. Could you help us? Your father is good.” “A good heart isn’t always accompanied by a full purse,” thought Jean. “Who imagines that he has a property interest in your sister?” she asked aloud. “Our chief, Tyee of the Nootkas. He captured both of us in a war with our people, the Seattles, many, many moons ago.” “Ugh! Way-siyah! Whulge!” cried the girl, writhing like a captured eel. “Mac-kam-mah-shish, copa-nika?” “She asks if you cannot buy her.” “Nowitka! Mika! Closh potlatch hy-u chickamin?” “God knows I wish I could buy her,” said Jean.