was no answer to this. An Indian is an Indian.

I said after a moment:

“What mark is there on the moccasins that you knew them?”

“The wings, worked in white wampum. A mother makes a pair with wings each year for her Hidden One, so that they will bring her little child to her one day, swiftly and surely as the swallow that returns with spring.”

“Has she told you of these moccasins — how every year a pair of them is left for her, no matter where she may be lodged?”

“She has told me. She has shown me the letter on bark which was found with her; the relics of her father; this last pair of moccasins, and the new message written within.