e of her father--no damning of
the breed for the sins of the individual.

Lacombie, she knew, was good--the one good white man--old
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta called him. And Moncrossen was bad.

Between these two extremes were the unnumbered millions of whom
Lacombie used to tell her in the long Northern twilight, when, as a
little girl, she would creep upon his knees as he sat before the door
of the log trading-post, and his arms would steal about her, and a
far-away look would creep into his blue eyes.

Often he spoke of beautiful women; of mighty tepees of stone; of
bridges of iron, and of trains which rushed along the iron trails at
the speed of the flight of a bird, and spat fire and smoke, and whose
voice shrieked louder than the mate-call of the _loup-cervier_.

And she would listen, round-eyed, until the little head would droop
slowly against the great chest, and the words would rumble softly and
blend bewilderingly with the wheezing of the black pipe and the strong
smell of rank tobacco.

Sometimes she would wake up with a start to hear more, and it would be
morning, and she would be between the blankets in her own little bunk,
and Wa-ha-ta-na-ta would come and laugh, and pinch her fat legs, and
croon strange Indian songs in low minor keys.

There were stories, too; stories of Kas-ka-tan, the chief; of the Crazy
Man of the Berry Moon; of Zuk, the lost hunter; of the Maiden of the
Snows, whose heart was of ice, and whose voice was the splashing of
tiny waters, and of the mighty Fire God, whose breath alone could move
the heart of the Maiden of the Snows, so that in the springtime when he
spoke to her of love, her laughter was heard in the tiny rills of the
woodland.

But it was of Lacombie's tales she thought most. Only she could never
stay awake to hear the end, and the next night there would be other
tales of other wonders, and all without end.

So in her heart grew a strange unrest, a wild, irrepressible longing to
see these things in the wonderful country of the white men, to whom, in
time of sickness and death, came smiling, round-faced priests, with
long black clothes and many buttons; instead of hideous medicine-men,
with painted faces and strings of teeth and shriveled claws.

As she gazed upon the form of the white man, a soft wistfulness stole
into her eyes. Unconsciously, she drew closer, and the next instant
threw herself upon the body, tearing frantically at the shirt-front.

Sounded the tiny poppi