looking directly into his mother's
eyes. "Only now that I see you want me to give my life to someone
else. But my life belongs to the white girl, Mrs. Evans' sister, if
she will take it. I shall offer it to her to-morrow--to-day."

His mother's face took on the shadow of age. "You would marry a
_white_ girl?" she exclaimed, incredulously.

"Yes," came the reply, briefly, decidedly.

"But your children, your sons and hers--they could never hold the
title, never be chief," she said, rising to her feet.

He winced. "I know it. I had not thought of it before--but I know
it. Still, I would marry her."

"But there would be no more chiefs of the Grand Mansion name,"
cut in his father. "The title would go to your aunt's sons. She
is a Grand Mansion no longer; she, being married, is merely a
Straight-Shot, her husband's name. The Straight-Shots never had
noble blood, never wore a title. Shall our family title go to
a _Straight-Shot_?" and the elder chief mouthed the name
contemptuously.

Again the boy winced. The hurt of it all was sinking in--he hated
the Straight-Shots, he loved his own blood and bone. With lightning
rapidity he weighed it all mentally, then spoke: "Perhaps the white
girl will not marry me," he said slowly, and the thought of it
drove the dark red from his cheeks, drove his finger-nails into his
palms.

"Then, then you will marry Dawendine, our choice?" cried his
mother, hopefully.

"I shall marry no one but the white girl," he answered, with set
lips. "If she will not marry me, I shall never marry, so the
Straight-Shots will have our title, anyway."

The door closed behind him. It was as if it had shut forever
between him and his own.

But even with this threatened calamity looming before her, the old
Indian mother's hurt heart swelled with a certain pride in his
wilful actions.

"What bravery!" she exclaimed. "What courage to hold to his
own choice! What a _man_!"

"Yes," half bemoaned his father, "he is a red man through and
through. He defies his whole nation in his fearlessness, his
lawlessness. Even I bow to his bravery, his self-will, but that
bravery is hurting me here, here!" and the ancient chief laid his
hand above his heart.

There was no reply to be made by the proud though pained mother.
She folded her "broadcloth" about her, filled her small carved pipe
and sat for many hours smoking silently, silently, silently. Now
and again she shook her head mournfully, but her dark eyes