He had lived for six months with
this people, and they had taught him some lessons outside the craft
of hunting: for example, that it takes all sorts to make a world, and
that only a fool condemns his fellows for being unlike himself.
At home in Devonshire he had never understood why the best
farm-labourers and workmen broke out at times into reckless drinking,
and lay sodden for days together; or how their wives could accept
these outbursts as a matter of course. He understood now, having
served apprentice to hardship, how the natural man must revolt now
and again from the penalty of Adam, the grinding toil, day in and day
out, to wrest food from the earth for himself, his womenkind, and
children. He understood, too, how noble is the discipline, though
pardonable the revolt. He had discovered how little a man truly
needs. He had seen in this strange life much cruelty, much crazy
superstition, much dirt and senseless discomfort; but he had made
acquaintance with love and self-denial. He had learnt, above all,
the great lesson--to think twice before judging, and thrice before
condemning.

The camp fire was dying down untended. He arose and cast an armful
of logs upon it; and at the sound Azoka withdrew her eyes from the
doorway and fastened them upon him.

"Netawis," said she, "when will you be leaving us?"

"I have no thought of leaving."

"You are not telling me the truth, now."

"Indeed, I believe I am," John assured her.

"But what, then, of the girl yonder, whom you wanted to marry?
Has she married another man, or is she dead? Yes, I know something
about it," Azoka went on, as he stood staring amazedly. "For a long
time I have wanted to tell you. That night, after you had killed the
bear and Ononwe took you aside--I was afraid that you two would be
quarrelling, and so I crept after you--" She waited for him to
understand.

"I see," said John gravely.

"Tell me what has become of her."

"I suppose that she is living still with her own people; and there is
nothing more to tell, Azoka, except that she cannot be mine, and
would not if she could."

"Whose fault was it, Netawis? Yours or hers?"

"There was much fault indeed, and all of it mine; but against my
marrying her it did not count, for that was impossible from the
beginning. Suppose, now, your nation were at war with the Ottawas,
and a young Ottawa brave fell in love with you. What would you do?"

"That is idle talk, for of course I