“Oh, Father, guess!  Mr. Lemoine saw a picture—­a Blackfoot woman had it—­old Makoye-kin’s wife—­and she sold it.  And he says it was like me—­exactly.  Maybe it was my aunt—­or some one.  My father’s sister!  Don’t you think?”

“I’ll ken what I think better gin ye’ll just quiet doon an’ tell me a’ aboot it, lass.”

She told him.  The Scotchman took what she had to say with no outward sign of excitement.  None the less his blood moved faster.  He wanted no change in the relations between them that would interfere with the love she felt for him.  To him it did not matter whether she was of the pure blood or of the metis.  He had always ignored the Indian in her.  She was a precious wildling of beauty and delight.  By nature she was of the ruling race.  There was in her nothing servile or dependent, none of the inertia that was so marked a mental characteristic of the Blackfoot and the Cree.  Her slender body was compact of fire and spirit.  She was alive to her finger-tips.

None the less he was glad on her account.  Since it mattered to her that she was a half-blood, he would rejoice, too, if she could prove the contrary.  Or, if she could trace her own father’s family, he would try to be glad for her.

With his rough forefinger he touched gently the tender curve of the girl’s cheek.  “I’m thinkin’ that gin ye find relatives across the line, auld Angus McRae will be losin’ his dawtie.”

She flew into his arms, her warm, young face pressed against his seamed cheek.

“Never—­never!  You’re my father—­always that no matter what I find.  You taught me to read and nursed me when I was sick.  Always you’ve cared for me and been good to me.  I’ll never have any real father but you,” she cried passionately.

He stroked her dark, abundant hair fondly.  “My lass, I’ve gi’en ye all the love any yin could gi’e his ain bairn.  I doot I’ve been hard on ye at times, but I’m a dour auld man an’ fine ye ken my heart was woe for ye when I was the strictest.”

She could count on the fingers of one hand the times when he had said as much.  Of nature he was a bit of Scotch granite externally.  He was sentimental.  Most of his race are.  But he guarded the expression of it as though it were a vice.

“Maybe Onistah has heard his mother say something about it,” Jessie suggested.

“Like enough.  There’ll be nae harm in askin’ the lad.”

But the Blackfoot had little to tell.  He had been told by Stokimatis that Sleeping Dawn was his cousin, but he had never quite believed it.  Once, when he had pressed his mother with questions, she had smiled deeply and changed the subject.  His feeling was, and had always been, that there was some mystery about the girl’s birth.  Stokimatis either knew what it was or had some hint of it.

His testimony at least tended to support the wild hopes flaming in the girl’s heart.

Lemoine started south for Whoop-Up at break of day.