g race. There was in her nothing servile or dependent,
none of the inertia that was so marked a mental characteristic of
the Blackfoot and the Cree. Her slender body was compact of fire and
spirit. She was alive to her finger-tips.

None the less he was glad on her account. Since it mattered to her
that she was a half-blood, he would rejoice, too, if she could prove
the contrary. Or, if she could trace her own father's family, he would
try to be glad for her.

With his rough forefinger he touched gently the tender curve of the
girl's cheek. "I'm thinkin' that gin ye find relatives across the
line, auld Angus McRae will be losin' his dawtie."

She flew into his arms, her warm, young face pressed against his
seamed cheek.

"Never--never! You're my father--always that no matter what I find.
You taught me to read and nursed me when I was sick. Always you've
cared for me and been good to me. I'll never have any real father but
you," she cried passionately.

He stroked her dark, abundant hair fondly. "My lass, I've gi'en ye all
the love any yin could gi'e his ain bairn. I doot I've been hard on ye
at times, but I'm a dour auld man an' fine ye ken my heart was woe for
ye when I was the strictest."

She could count on the fingers of one hand the times when he had said
as much. Of nature he was a bit of Scotch granite externally. He was
sentimental. Most of his race are. But he guarded the expression of it
as though it were a vice.

"Maybe Onistah has heard his mother say something about it," Jessie
suggested.

"Like enough. There'll be nae harm in askin' the lad."

But the Blackfoot had little to tell. He had been told by Stokimatis
that Sleeping Dawn was his cousin, but he had never quite believed it.
Once, when he had pressed his mother with questions, she had smiled
deeply and changed the subject. His feeling was, and had always been,
that there was some mystery about the girl's birth. Stokimatis either
knew what it was or had some hint of it.

His testimony at least tended to support the wild hopes flaming in the
girl's heart.

Lemoine started south for Whoop-Up at break of day.

CHAPTER XXXIII

INTO THE LONE LAND

Into Northern Lights the pursuers drove after a four-day traverse.
Manders, of the Mounted, welcomed them with the best he had. No news
had come to him from the outside for more than two months, and after
his visitors were fed and warmed, they lounged in front of a roaring
log fire whi