brought him a piece of well-cooked moose meat, and the relish with which he ate brought an expression of satisfaction to her face.

"Is the white man better now?"

They were the first words she had uttered, and the stranger was surprised at the soft tone of her voice. He was delighted, too, to find that he could understand her language, which was little different from that he was in the habit of speaking.

"I feel quite well," he replied. "You are very kind to me. But please tell me how I came here. I was battling through the storm, I fell and knew no more until I awoke and found myself in this lodge."

"It was my father who saved you," Owindia replied, while a smile illumined her face.

"And is that your father over there?"

"Ah, ah."

"And what is his name?"

"Klitonda."

"What! Klitonda, chief of the Ayana?"

"Ah, ah."

"And your name?"

"Owindia."

"Owindia; how pretty. I like it. Do you wish to know mine?"

"Ah, ah."

"Natsatt is my name."

"I like it," was the shy reply. "It is different from any I ever heard."

Klitonda in the meantime had finished his work, and had taken his place near where the white man was sitting. His face brightened as he listened to the conversation, for it always pleased him to see Owindia happy. Something about the stranger attracted him. He liked his face; it was candid and open. Klitonda was a good judge of character. He could read men like an open book, and had a name for each. He could detect the wolf, bear, or fox nature in a short time.

"I want to thank you for your kindness to me," and Natsatt turned toward the chief as he spoke. "But for you I should have perished out there in the storm."

"The white man is welcome to Klitonda's lodge," was the quiet reply. "Klitonda's heart is always warm to the great race beyond the mountains of the rising sun."

"You have traded with them, then?" Natsatt somewhat anxiously queried. "They have been here buying your skins?"

"Klitonda's wife was born there. Klota's father was a white man."

"Oh, I see," and a surprised look came into Natsatt's eyes. Then he looked at Owindia and light began to dawn upon his mind. Here was the reason why she was so different from other Indian women he had met. There was white blood in her veins.

"And your wife is dead?" he questioned.

"Ah, ah. Dead."

The pathos in Klitonda's voice, and the pained expression upon his face, deterred Natsatt from inquiring further.

"Do the white traders come here now?" he asked.

The chief shook his head.

"No, the white men have never traded here."

"But where do you sell your furs?"

"To the Chilcat wolves," and Klitonda's voice hardened. "They come here; they rob the Ayana. They are bad, ugh!"

"But why do you trade with them?"

"Where else can the Ayana trade? What can they do with their skins?"

"Will the Chilcats get all these?" and Natsatt pointed to the furs hanging on the walls.

"No!" Klitonda replied, clenching his hands fiercely together. "No Chilcat gets these skins."

"But what will you do with them?"

"Klitonda will cross the great mountains. He will find the white traders."

"Did you ever go there before?"

"No."

"And will other hunters take their skins there, too?"

"No; they fear the Chilcats."

"But would they trade with the white men if they came into your country? Would they bring their furs to the white man's store?"

To this Klitonda did not at once reply. He seemed to be thinking deeply. A new idea had entered his mind. Would the white traders come? Would they buy the furs, and would they help to drive back the Chilcats beyond the coast range? Then he thought of the anger of the Chilcats should the white men enter the land, and begin trading with the Ayana. There would be trouble, he felt sure of that.

"It would not be safe for the white men to come," he at length remarked. "The Chilcat wolves would be angry; they would come in great force, and kill them."

"You think so?" Natsatt questioned.

"Ah, ah. Klitonda knows what the Chilcats would do."

"But the white men have come. They have built a Post at the mouth of the Segas River. They have goods, and will trade with the Ayana. They will give fair prices for their skins."

Klitonda started at these words, and looked keenly into Natsatt's face.

"Does the white man speak true?" he demanded. "Does he mean all he says?"

"Yes, yes; it is true. The Post has been built, and the white men are there. I was sent out with another trader to visit some of the Indian camps, to invite them to bring their furs to the Post. My companion went more to the right, while I followed the river and got lost in the storm. I hope nothing has happened to him."

Slowly Klitonda shook his head.

"Let the white men beware," he replied. "The Chilcats are fierce."

And yet within his own heart Klitonda rejoiced at what he had just heard. He himself could take his furs to the white men, and he determined to get as many as possible of his own people to do the same. He would let them know of the new Post, and he felt quite sure that they would visit the place out of mere curiosity at least as soon as the ice moved out of the river.

Natsatt pondered carefully what Klitonda had told him. The news was disturbing. He thought of the trading Post down the river, devoid of defence, should the Chilcats make trouble. It was his duty to return as speedily as possible, and report what he had heard. And yet he did not wish to leave the lodge. He longed to stay, to be near this beautiful maiden. He leaned comfortably back against a pile of skins, and watched her busy fingers as they ran the beads upon the slender sinew thread. The storm still roared outside, the fire crackled, and the heat made him drowsy. Yes, he must hasten away; he must not delay. But those hands fascinated him. How little they were, and yet how strong. And that thread upon which the beads were slipping brought to his mind a quaint fancy. It was his life, bare and lonely, stretching out through more than a score of years. But how changed it had become of late. What a transformation had taken place. Various colours, red and blue, green and orange, all blending so naturally. And it was she who did it. Yes, his life was like that thread, and she was working the change, transforming bareness into beauty, sweet peace and harmony for the spirit of restlessness. He wished to stay there forever, to be close to her side, to look into her eyes, and to watch those wonderful fingers. Far away now she seemed—fading from his sight—and as she moved there floated upon his ears the sound of singing, sweeter than the song of a bird, and more entrancing than any thing he had ever heard. Was it a dream?