But Verty was musing; his large, dreamy eyes were fixed with unalterable attention upon vacancy, and his drooping shoulders, whereon lay the tangled mass of his chestnut hair, swayed regularly as he moved.

It only mingled with his musings--the bright scene--and grew a part of them; he scarcely saw it.
"Yes," he murmured, "yes, I think I am a Delaware!--a white?
to dream it! am I mad?
The wild night-wind must have whispered to me while I slept, and gone away laughing at me.

I, the savage, the simple savage, to think this was so! And yet--yes, yes--I did think so! Redbud said it was thus--Redbud!" And the young man for a time was silent.
"I wonder what Redbud thinks of me ?" he murmured again, with his old dreamy smile.

"Can she find anything to like in me?
What am I?
Poor, poor Verty--you are very weak, and the stream here is laughing at you.
You are a poor forest boy--there can be nothing in you for Redbud to like.

Oh! if she could! But we are friends, I know--about the other, why think?
what is it?
Love!--what is love?
It must be something strange--or why do I feel as if to be friends was not enough?
Love!" And Verty's head drooped.
"Love, love!" he murmured.