our rough way. I had known in a moment that it must be so, for my father
never argued. Argument, to his mind, was a very nice amusement for the
weak. My spirits rose as he swung his bear-skin bag upon his shoulder,
and the last sound of the laboring caravan groaned in the distance, and
the fresh air and the freedom of the mountains moved around us. It was
the 29th of May--Oak-apple Day in England--and to my silly youth this
vast extent of snowy mountains was a nice place for a cool excursion.

Moreover, from day to day I had been in most wretched anxiety, so long
as we remained with people who could not allow for us. My father, by
his calm reserve and dignity and largeness, had always, among European
people, kept himself secluded; but now in this rough life, so pent in
trackless tracts, and pressed together by perpetual peril, every body's
manners had been growing free and easy. Every man had been compelled to
tell, as truly as he could, the story of his life thus far, to amuse
his fellow-creatures--every man, I mean, of course, except my own poor
father. Some told their stories every evening, until we were quite
tired--although they were never the same twice over; but my father could
never be coaxed to say a syllable more than, "I was born, and I shall
die."

This made him very unpopular with the men, though all the women admired
it; and if any rough fellow could have seen a sign of fear, the speaker
would have been insulted. But his manner and the power of his look were
such that, even after ardent spirits, no man saw fit to be rude to him.
Nevertheless, there had always been the risk of some sad outrage.

"Erema," my father said to me, when the dust from the rear of the
caravan was lost behind a cloud of rocks, and we two stood in the
wilderness alone--"do you know, my own Erema, why I bring you from
them?"

"Father dear, how should I know? You have done it, and it must be
right."

"It is not for their paltry insults. Child, you know what I think all
that. It is for you, my only child, that I am doing what now I do."

I looked up into his large, sad eyes without a word, in such a way that
he lifted me up in his arms and kissed me, as if I were a little child
instead of a maiden just fifteen. This he had never done before, and
it made me a little frightened. He saw it, and spoke on the spur of the
thought, though still with one arm round me.

"Perhaps you will live to be thankful, my dear, that you had a stern