t is by no means
usual; but when a man has no other weapon at hand, he is compelled to
use his fists. And let me tell you," I added, for I was somewhat
nettled by the obvious laugh that nestled in the girl's blue eyes,--"let
me tell you that we English are pretty good at using our fists."

"I know that," she replied, becoming suddenly very grave as we walked
on.

"You know that?" I repeated in surprise; "how came you to know that?"

"My dear father was English," she answered in a low sad tone that smote
me to the heart for having felt nettled--though I believe I did not show
the feeling on my face or in my tone.

"Ah! Big Otter told me that," said I, in an earnest tone of sympathy.
"If it does not hurt her feelings too much to recall the past, I should
like Waboose to tell me about her father."

The girl looked at me in surprise. I had a fancy, at the time, that
this was the result of the novel sensation of a man having any
consideration for her feelings, for Indian braves are not, as a rule,
much given to think about the feelings of their women. Indeed, from the
way in which many of them behave, it is probable that some red-men think
their women have no feelings at all.

In a low, melodious voice, and with some of that poetic imagery which
marks the language, more or less, of all North American Indians, the
girl began to speak--raising her eyes wistfully the while to the sky, as
if she were communing with her own thoughts rather than speaking to me.

"My father was good--oh! _so_ good and kind," she said. "When I was
small, like the foolish rabbit when it is a baby, he used to take me on
his shoulders and run with me over the prairie like the wild mustang.
Sometimes he put me in his bark canoe and skimmed with me over Lake
Wichikagan till I fancied I was a grey-goose or a swan. Ah! those were
happy days! No one can ever understand how much my father loved me. My
mother loves me much, but she is not like my father. Perhaps it is the
nature of the pale-faces to love more deeply than the red-men."

Waboose uttered this last sentence as if she were questioning the sky on
the point. I felt at the time that there was at least one pale-face who
loved her better than all the red-men or women on earth, but a sense of
justice caused me to repudiate the general idea.

"No, Waboose," said I, firmly, "that is a mistake. Rough surroundings
and a harsh life will indeed modify the heart's affections, but the mere