There seems to be considerable love expended among the members of an Ona family. It is kindled with the first days of childhood, and it is still burning at ripe old age. It is, however, a love which is never appreciated by a white man, nor is it ever tendered to him except for little spasmodic periods. Nothing illustrates this point better than the experience of the pale-faced new-comers. Everybody who goes as a pioneer to the Cape Horn region is a bachelor. All buy, borrow, or steal wives when they decide to settle down upon a gold-mine or a sheep-farm. The Indian women, it must be confessed, are not unwilling to be bought or stolen, but they are not to the white man what they are to the copper-faced rival. In the Indian household she may be but one of several wives; she can claim only a small share of her husband’s affection; she must work hard, is poorly dressed, and is always half-starved; but she prefers this life as a steady thing to the entire heart of a pale-face, with the luxuries which he brings her. [Illustration: Sunset Over Brabant Island.] One miner, a man with considerable experience and a collegiate education, gave me the following story bearing on the behaviour of the women of Fireland: “The Ona girl is a queer and unnatural being; she may live with a white man, or even be lawfully wedded to him, but tender sentiments like love for her white admirer never enter or leave her dusky bosom. I came here ten years ago and struck a pay dig. I hadn’t time to go home to look for a new or to bring out an old sweetheart. Some Indians always remained unfriendly, but a few came with good intentions to the camp; these would now and then leave one or two of their wives for me to feed and dress, and in this way I learned to like them. One day there came to the camp an old couple with a young and bewitching daughter. She was only fourteen years old, but in form and manner she was just the jewel a gold-digger would be likely to pick up. I knew a little smattering of the native lingo and began to talk love to the girl at once; she didn’t seem to understand me. All the tender and nice things I tried to say seemed to be wasted. I talked to the parents; they quickly understood me, but they said a red woman might admire and respect a pale-face, but the warm fire, which was the principal charm of an Ona woman, was never kindled by a white man.