m the pictures on the wall to the
white-haired man sitting by the window with a book in his hand.

But Constance formed the chief attraction. White men were no novelty
to her, but a pale-face woman was something new, and worth studying.
She had seen her every Sunday at the church, sitting at the little
harmonium, and had been held spellbound by her sweet rich voice joining
in the singing. She associated Constance with that strange world, the
glorious dreamland, which filled so much of her life, and of which the
bell was an important factor. From her seat in the back of the church
she would look at her own hands, and notice how dark they were,
compared with the organist's fair white ones. Returning to the lodge
she would gaze long and earnestly into the broken mirror, and wonder
why her face was not like the white woman's. Much time did she spend
in her efforts to arrange her hair in the same fluffy way with wavy
tresses crowning cheek and brow like the object of her admiration.
But, poor child, the more she tried the less she succeeded, for her
straight black hair proved too intractable, and refused any other
method than the long braid, or its wild abandoned condition.

For a time Constance continued the sewing upon which she was engaged,
and addressed no word to the maiden. She had often heard of this
Indian characteristic of silence when first entering a building, and
wished to prove it for herself. But when at length Jennie drew forth
her treasure from beneath her shawl, and uttered the broken word
"peejee," Constance looked up.

"What is it?" she asked kindly, going over to where the girl was
sitting.

"Peejee. See, nice peejee," and Jennie held out her hand.

"Oh, pictures," laughed Constance, taking the sketches from the maiden.
"Did you bring them for me?"

"Me fetch 'm. Heem tell Jennie come."

"Who told you?"

"Gikhyi."

"What, Mr. Steadman?"

"Ah, ah."

"Look, father," and Constance crossed the room to where Mr. Radhurst
was sitting, a silent witness of it all. "Mr. Steadman sent Jennie
here to show us her pictures; how kind of him."

Jennie went softly across the room, and laid her hand upon the sketches.

"Calling us to order, are you, Jennie?" Constance laughed. "Come,
then, show us your pictures, and tell us about them."

Eagerly the girl seized the sketch in her fingers.

"Peety," she said, holding it tenderly up before them. "F'owers,
twees, water."

Constance and her fa