ated his
long, white hair; I hated his thin, white hands; I hated his body,
his soul, his voice, his black book--oh, how I hated the very
atmosphere of him.

Laurence sat motionless, his face buried in his hands, but the old
man continued, "No, no; not the child of that pagan mother; you
can't trust her, my son. What would you do with a wife who might any
day break from you to return to her prairies and her buckskins? _You
can't trust her_." His eyes grew smaller, more glittering, more
fascinating then, and leaning with an odd, secret sort of movement
towards Laurence, he almost whispered, "Think of her silent ways,
her noiseless step; the girl glides about like an apparition; her
quick fingers, her wild longings--I don't know why, but with all my
fondness for her, she reminds me sometimes of a strange--_snake_."

Laurence shuddered, lifted his face, and said hoarsely: "You're
right, uncle; perhaps I'd better not; I'll go away, I'll forget her,
and then--well, then--yes, you are right, it _is_ a different thing
to marry one of them." The old man arose. His feeble fingers still
clasped his black book; his soft white hair clung about his forehead
like that of an Apostle; his eyes lost their peering, crafty
expression; his bent shoulders resumed the dignity of a minister
of the living God; he was the picture of what the trader called
him--"St. Paul."

"Good-night, son," he said.

"Good-night, uncle, and thank you for bringing me to myself."

They were the last words I ever heard uttered by either that old
arch-fiend or his weak, miserable kinsman. Father Paul turned and
left the room. I watched his withered hand--the hand I had so often
felt resting on my head in holy benedictions--clasp the door-knob,
turn it slowly, then, with bowed head and his pale face wrapped in
thought, he left the room--left it with the mad venom of my hate
pursuing him like the very Evil One he taught me of.

What were his years of kindness and care now? What did I care for
his God, his heaven, his hell? He had robbed me of my native faith,
of my parents, of my people, of this last, this life of love that
would have made a great, good woman of me. God! how I hated him!

I crept to the closet in my dark little room. I felt for the bundle
I had not looked at for years--yes, it was there, the buckskin dress
I had worn as a little child when they brought me to the mission. I
tucked it under my arm and descended the stairs noiselessly. I would