Instantly her mood changed. Her lips trembled and unshed tears stood in her eyes, as she answered sadly: “Because it is all I know to tell. My earliest recollection is of playing among the children of the Shawnees. Tenskwatawa was pointed out to me as my father. From that day until I was ten years old—as nearly as I know my age—I was under his charge. During all that time the aged Indian woman, who is my attendant now, ministered to my childish needs and wants—was all the mother I ever knew. At the age of ten I was an uncouth little savage. I went with the tribe from one camp to another. I knew no other life—I cared for naught but the companionship of my savage friends——” “How similar to my own experience!” he muttered. “What did you say?” she asked quickly. “Pardon my interruption,” he replied. “Please go on with your story.” “When I was ten years old, we were encamped upon the Maumee. There it was that I first saw Hiram Bradford—so far as I know. It was in the autumn when he came among us. He appeared to have great influence with my father, Tenskwatawa. One day I overheard the two talking—or quarreling, rather. Both were very angry. I heard my name mentioned; and with childish intuition I knew that some calamity threatened me. I ran and hid; but shortly my father found me, and told me I was to leave the tribe and accompany Scar Face—that is the name Bradford bears among the Indians. I remember I cried bitterly and clung to Crane Bill, my nurse. But Bradford took me in his arms and bore me away. He took me to Quebec and placed me in charge of some French women, who taught a mission school. There I remained six years—and there I received the little education I possess. Two years ago he took me from my good friends—whom I had learned to love dearly—and brought me back to the tribe.” She stopped abruptly, her breast heaving. “Go on,” Ross said gently. “There is no more to tell,” was the half-whispered reply. “That’s all you know of yourself?” “It is”—nodding. “Do you know anything of Bradford’s history?” “Nothing.” “You are eighteen years old?” “As nearly as I know.” “And you know nothing of your people?” “You are among them.” “You mean these dirty, idle savages?” “Yes. They are all the friends I have ever known, except Bradford, the teachers and pupils at the mission school—and yourself.” “You haven’t the faintest recollection of your parents—your childhood home?” he persisted. “Sometimes,” she answered chokingly, “I dream of lying as a babe in the arms of a fair-haired, blue-eyed woman, and seeing her smile down at me. But that is all—it is but a dream.” “Has Tenskwatawa always been kind to you?” “Kind and deferential.” “But you know—you feel—that he isn’t your father?” For a few seconds she was silent. Then she said: