Then he was an Indian--a Delaware--the son of the Indian woman--he was not a paleface.

All the talk about it was thrown away; he was born in the woods--would live and die in the woods! For a moment the image of Redbud rose before him, and he sighed.

He knew not why, but he wished that he was not an Indian--he wished that his blood had been that of the whites.
His sad face drooped; then his eyes ware raised, and he saw the old woman weeping.
The sight removed from Verty's mind all personal considerations, and he leaned his head upon her knee, and pressed her hand to his lips.
"Did the child make his mother weep," he said; "did his idle words bring rain to her eyes, and make her heart heavy?
But he is her child still, and all the world is nothing to him." Verty rose, and taking the old, withered hand, placed it respectfully on his breast.
"Never again, _ma mere_" he said, "will the wind talk to me, or the birds whisper.

I will not listen.

Have I made your eyes dark?
Let it pass away--I am your son--I love you--more than all the whole wide world." And Verty sat down, and gazed tenderly at the old woman, whose face had assumed an expression of extraordinary delight.
"Listen," said Verty, taking down his old violin, with a smile, "I will play one of the old tunes, which blow like a wind from my childhood--happy childhood." And the young man gazed for a moment, silent and motionless, into the fire.