no answer.

"Who sends money to be spent on me every year?"

Still she made no answer.

"If I am not your son, whose son am I?"

In the silence I turned to Skenedonk.

"Isn't my name Lazarre Williams, Skenedonk?"

"You are called Lazarre Williams."

"A woman told me last night that it was not my name. Everyone denies me.
No one owns me and tells whose child I am. Wasn't I born at St. Regis?"

"If you were, there is no record of your birth on the register. The
chief's other children have their births recorded."

I turned to my father. The desolation of being cut off and left with
nothing but the guesses of strangers overcame me. I sobbed so the hoarse
choke echoed in the cabin. Skenedonk opened his arms, and my father and
mother let me lean on the Oneida's shoulder.

I have thought since that they resented with stoical pain his taking
their white son from them. They both stood severely reserved, passively
loosening the filial bond.

All the business of life was suspended, as when there is death in the
lodge. Skenedonk and I sat down together on a bunk.

"Lazarre," my father spoke, "do you want to be educated?"

The things we pine for in this world are often thrust upon us in a way
to choke us. I had tramped miles, storming for the privileges that had
made George Croghan what he was. Fate instantly picked me up from
unendurable conditions to set me down where I could grow, and I squirmed
with recoil from the shock.

I felt crowded over the edge of a cliff and about to drop into a valley
of rainbows.

"Do you want to live in De Chaumont's house and learn his ways?"

My father and mother had been silent when I questioned them. It was my
turn to be silent.

"Or would you rather stay as you are?"

"No, father," I answered, "I want to go."

The camp had never been dearer. I walked among the Indian children when
the evening fires were lighted, and the children looked at me curiously
as at an alien. Already my people had cut me off from them.

"What I learn I will come back and teach you," I told the young men and
women of my own age. They laughed.

"You are a fool, Lazarre. There is a good home for you at St. Regis. If
you fall sick in De Chaumont's house who will care?"

"Skenedonk is my friend," I answered.

"Skenedonk would not stay where he is tying you. When the lake freezes
you will be mad for snowshoes and a sight of the St. Lawrence."

"Perhaps so. But we are not made alike. Do not forget m