out such things. She was not going to let him go
away thinking Angus McRae's family were barbarians, even though his
wife was a Cree and his children of the half-blood.

On the table she put a glass dish of wild-strawberry jam. In the
summer she had picked the fruit herself, just as she had gathered the
saskatoon berries sprinkled through the pemmican she was going to use
for the rubaboo.

CHAPTER XXX

"M" FOR MORSE

Two in the village bathed that day. The other was Tom Morse. He
discarded his serviceable moccasins, his caribou-skin capote with the
fur on, his moose-skin trousers, and his picturesque blanket shirt.
For these he substituted the ungainly clothes of civilization, a pair
of square-toed boots, a store suit, a white shirt.

This was not the way Faraway dressed for gala occasions, but in
several respects the trader did not choose to follow the habits of the
North. At times he liked to remind himself that he was an American and
not a French half-breed born in the woods.

As he had promised, he was at the McRaes' by the appointed hour.
Jessie opened to his knock.

The girl almost took his breath. He had not realized how attractive
she was. In her rough outdoor costumes she had a certain naive
boyishness, a very taking quality of vital energy that was sexless.
But in the house dress she was wearing now, Jessie was wholly
feminine. The little face, cameo-fine and clear-cut, the slender body,
willow-straight, had the soft rounded curves that were a joy to the
eye. He had always thought of her as dark, but to his surprise he
found her amazingly fair for one of the metis blood.

A dimpled smile flashed him welcome. "You did come, then?"

"Is it the wrong night? Weren't you expectin' me?" he asked in
pretended alarm.

"I was and I wasn't. It wouldn't have surprised me if you had decided
you were too busy to come."

"Not when Miss Jessie McRae invites me."

"She invited you once before," the girl reminded him.

"Then she asked me because she thought she ought. Is that why I'm
asked this time?"

She laughed. "You mustn't look a gift dinner in the mouth."

They were by this time in the big family room. She relieved him of his
coat. He walked over to the couch upon which Onistah lay.

"How goes it? Tough sleddin'?" he asked.

The bronze face of the Blackfoot was immobile. He must still have been
in great pain from the burnt feet, but he gave no sign of it.

"Onistah find good friends," he a