e was one of the first Americans to make money in the Canadian
northwest; but that was after my mother died. She died in the snow, on a
journey--like that sketch above the fireplace. I've been told that it
changed my father's life. He had been what they call wild before that--but
he wasn't so any more. He grew very hard-working and serious. He was one
of the pioneers of that country--one of the very first to see its
possibilities. That was how he made his money; and when he died he left it
to me. I believe it's a good deal."

"Didn't you hate being in the convent?" he asked, suddenly "I should."

"N-no; not exactly. I wasn't unhappy. The Sisters were kind to me. Some of
them spoiled me. It wasn't until after my father died, and I began to
realize--who I was, that I grew restless. I felt I should never be happy
until I was among people of my own kind."

"And how did you get there?"

She smiled faintly to herself before answering.

"I never did. There are no people of my kind."

Embarrassed by the stress she seemed inclined to lay on this circumstance,
he grasped at the first thought that might divert her from it.

"So you live with a guardian! How do you like that?"

"I should like it well enough if he did--that is, if his wife did. You
see," she tried to explain, "she's very sweet and gentle, and all that,
but she's devoted to the proprieties of life, and I seem to represent to
her--its improprieties. I know it's a trial to her to keep me, and so, in
a way, it's a trial to me to stay."

"Why do you stay, then?"

"For one reason, because I can't help myself. I have to do what the law
tells me."

"I see. The law again!"

"Yes; the law again. But I've other reasons besides that."

"Such as--?"

"Well, I'm very fond of their little girl, for one thing. She's the
greatest darling in the world, and the only creature, except my dog, that
loves me."

"What's her name?"

The question drove her to painting with closer attention to her work. Ford
followed something of the progress of her thought by watching the just
perceptible contraction of her brows into a little frown, and the setting
of her lips into a curve of determination. They were handsome lips, mobile
and sensitive--lips that might easily have been disdainful had not the
inner spirit softened them with a tremor--or it might have been a
light--of gentleness.

"It isn't worth while to tell you that," she said, after long reflection.
"It will be safer