ing for stories about
white people and one evening, Rodney replied: "I have told you all my
stories. Now you must tell me some; tell me of the place where you
lived before you came here. Is 'Maman' your real mother and is your
father living?"

A startled look came into the lad's big brown eyes. He peered about in
the growing dusk, then he said: "You will not tell? Maman says she
will kill me if I tell. Maman is not my mother. She had eyes like
flowers and papa, he was _gentilhomme_, would carry her in his arms
when she was sick. He was tall like Ahneota, only his eyes were not so
black. Mamma called him her soldier."

"Where is he now?" asked Rodney, thoroughly interested.

"He went away after mamma died and I went to live with _grandmere_
above Lachine. Marie, that's Maman, she says I must call her that, she
was a servant for _grandmere_, who died last harvest. She was not sick
a long time like mamma, but only a few days. Marie said it was
small-pox, and we must go away and find papa, but we have not found
him. I want to see my papa," and Louis threw himself sobbing on the
ground.

Rodney stroked his long yellow hair and called him "Yellow Locks," but
the little chap peevishly exclaimed, "I like Louis better. I don't
want to be called 'Yellow Locks.'"

A faint noise behind caused Rodney to turn quickly. There stood Marie,
the half-breed!

How much had she heard? the boy asked himself; but he was learning to
control his feelings, and he said pleasantly enough, "Good evening,
Maman. Louis is tired and I reckon wants to be in bed."

"I want to sleep here," exclaimed the child.

"Not to-night," replied Rodney. "You are too tired and the bed in
Maman's lodge is softer."

She took the little chap up in her arms and carried him away. It was
evident she was fond of him, which might account for her having stolen
him, as it appeared she had; also for her jealousy. What would be the
end of the muddle? Rodney asked himself. He thought of the stake and
the frenzied villagers dancing around the fire with blood-curdling
yells. Would he be able to endure the torture? He hoped so, for the
boy was proud of his race. But why borrow trouble? All around him were
signs of peace and savage contentment. The little camp-fires twinkled
in the gathering dusk. Some of the squaws sang bits of a wild lullaby
to their children and he could hear, in droning refrain:

"Wau, wau, tee, say.