autiful son upstairs--the finest boy I
ever saw. Hail to the young chief, I say!"

The doctor was white. He did not know of the broken line of
lineage--that "the boy upstairs" could never wear his father's
title. A swift shadow fought for a second with glorious happiness.
The battlefield was George Mansion's face, his heart. His unfilled
duty to his parents assailed him like a monstrous enemy, then
happiness conquered, came forth a triumphant victor, and the young
father dashed noiselessly, fleetly up the staircase, and, despite
the protesting physician, in another moment his wife and son were
in his arms. Title did not count in that moment; only Love in its
tyrannical majesty reigned in that sacred room.

The boy was a being of a new world, a new nation. Before he was two
weeks old he began to show the undeniable physique of the two great
races from whence he came; all the better qualities of both bloods
seemed to blend within his small body. He was his father's son,
he was his mother's baby. His grey-blue eyes held a hint of the
dreaming forest, but also a touch of old England's skies. His hair,
thick and black, was straight as his father's, except just above
the temples, where a suggestion of his mother's pretty English curls
waved like strands of fine silk. His small mouth was thin-lipped;
his nose, which even in babyhood never had the infantile "snub,"
but grew straight, thin as his Indian ancestors', yet displayed
a half-haughty English nostril; his straight little back--all
combined likenesses to his parents. But who could say which blood
dominated his tiny person? Only the exquisite soft, pale brown of
his satiny skin called loudly and insistently that he was of a
race older than the composite English could ever boast; it was the
hallmark of his ancient heritage--the birthright of his father's
son.

But the odd little half-blood was extraordinarily handsome even as
an infant. In after years when he grew into glorious manhood he
was generally acknowledged to be the handsomest man in the Province
of Ontario, but to-day--his first day in these strange, new
surroundings--he was but a wee, brown, lovable bundle, whose tiny
gossamer hands cuddled into his father's palm, while his little
velvet cheek lay rich and russet against the pearly whiteness of
his mother's arm.

"I believe he is like you, George," she murmured, with a wealth of
love in her voice and eyes.

"Yes," smiled the young chief, "he certainly ha