"Squaw," she answered, shaking her head. "You have grown up among the Indians and perhaps forgotten your own parents," he remarked, gazing earnestly upon her, "but your blood is white; you have not an Indian feature; your eyes are blue, your hair is red and curly." She evidently but half comprehended what he was saying, gave him no answer save an enquiring bewildered look. He called to his aid the slight knowledge he had gained of the Indian tongue, and at length succeeded in making himself understood. At first she utterly denied that she belonged to the white race, repeating her assertion that she was a squaw, but finally admitted that he was right, acknowledging that she had a faint recollection of being carried away by the Indians in her very early childhood. He asked if she would not like to go back; at which she answered very emphatically that she would not, she was the squaw of a young Indian brave, and the mother of these his children; loved husband and children dearly, and would on no account leave them. She had strayed from her camp that day and lost her way in the woods, but would find it again and go back to the Indian village, distant not more than two or three miles, when the moon was up. He ceased his persuasions, but regarded her with interest, thinking how sad it was that the child of civilized, perhaps Christian, parents should have become so entirely savage. He asked if she knew of any other white woman among the Indians. She did not. He talked to her of God and of Christ, telling the sweet story of the cross, but was doubtful how much of it she was able to grasp. She listened with a half interested, half puzzled air, a gleam of intelligence occasionally lighting up her somewhat stolid face. But the silvery rays of the moon came stealing through the branches overhead, and, rousing the older child, who had fallen asleep on the ground at her feet, the woman arose, shouldered her still slumbering babe, and wrapping her blanket about her, gave Kenneth a farewell nod, and with the little one trotting at her heels as before, quickly disappeared amid the deep shadows of the wood. The object of Kenneth's journey had been accomplished; the tiny flame of hope enkindled by the information gleaned from the hunter had gone out in darkness, and naught remained for him but to take up again his burden of secret grief and care, and go on with life's duties with what courage and patience he might. Weary with the day's travel, he yet made no movement toward preparation for sleep. Long hours he sat over his fire in an attitude of deep despondency, hands clasped about his knees, head bowed upon his breast; then kneeling upon the ground he poured out his soul in prayer.