I said:  “Do you then wonder that the thought of you, roaming these woods alone, is become a living dread to me, so that I think of nothing else?”

She smiled wanly, and sat thinking for a while, her pale face pressed between her hands.  Presently she looked up.

“Are we so truly friends then, Euan?  At the Spring Waiontha it almost seemed as though it could come true.”

“You know it has come true.”

“Do I?”

“Do you not know it, little Lois?”

“I seem to know it, somehow....  Tell me, Euan, does a true and deathless friendship with a man—­ with you—­ mean that I am to strip my heart of every secret, hiding nothing from you?”

“Dare you do it, Lois?” I said laughingly, yet thrilled with the candour of her words.

“I could not let you think me better than I am.  That would be stealing friendship from you.  But if you give it when you really know me—­ that will be dear and wonderful——­” She drew a swift breath and smiled.

Surprised, then touched, I met the winning honesty of her gaze in silence.

“Unless you truly know me—­ unless you know to whom you give your friendship—­ you can not give it rightly.  Can you, Euan?  You must learn all that I am and have been, Is not this necessary?”

“I—­ I ask you nothing,” I stammered.  “All that I know of you is wonderful enough——­” Suddenly the danger of the moment opened out before me, checking my very thoughts.

She laid both hands against her temple, pressing them there till her cheeks cooled.  So she pondered for a while, her gaze remote.  Then, looking fearlessly at me: 

“Euan, I am of that sad company of children born without name.  I have lately dared to guess who was my father.  Presently I will tell you who he was.”  Her grey and troubled eyes gazed into space now, dreamily.  “He died long since.  But my mother is living.  And I believe she lives near Catharines-town to-day!”

“What!  Why do you think so?” I exclaimed, astounded.

“Is not the Vale Yndaia there, near Catharines-town?”

“Yes.  But why——­”

“Then listen, Euan.  Every year upon a certain day—­ the twelfth of May—­ no matter where I chance to be, always outside my door I find two little beaded moccasins.  I have had them thirteen times in thirteen years.  And every year—­ save the last two—­ the moccasins have been made a little larger, as though to fit my growing years.  Now, for the last two years, they have remained the same in size, fitting me perfectly.  And—­ I never yet have worn them more than to fit them on and take them off.”

“Why?” I asked vaguely.

“I save them for my journey.”

“What journey?”

“The long trail through the Long House—­ straight through it, Euan, to the Western Door.  That is the trail I dream of.”

“Who leaves these strange moccasins at your threshold every year?”