ne accepted the milk she offered.

In the Sioux maiden's mind there was turmoil. A close attachment to the
little wild creature had already taken root there, contending with the
sense of justice that was strong within her. Now womanly sympathy for
the mother was in control, and now a desire to possess and protect her
helpless pet.

"I can take care of her against all hunters, both animal and human.
They are ever ready to seize the helpless fawn for food. Her life will
be often exposed. You cannot save her from disaster. O, Takcha, my
sister, let me still keep her for you!" she finally appealed to the
poor doe, who was nervously watching the intruder, and apparently
thinking how she might best escape with the fawn.

Just at this moment there came a low call from the wood. It was a doe
call; but the wild mother and her new friend both knew that it was not
the call of a real doe.

"It is a Sioux hunter!" whispered the girl. "You must go, my sister! Be
off; I will take your child to safety!"

While she was yet speaking, the doe seemed to realize the danger. She
stopped only an instant to lick fondly the tawny coat of the little
one, then she bounded away.

As Snana emerged from the bushes with her charge, a young hunter met
her face to face, and stared at her curiously. He was not of her
father's camp, but a stranger.

"Ugh, you have my game."

"Tosh!" she replied coquettishly.

It was so often said among the Indians that the doe was wont to put on
human form to mislead the hunter, that it looked strange to see a woman
with a fawn, and the young man could not forbear to gaze upon Snana.

"You are not the real mother in maiden's guise? Tell me truly if you
are of human blood," he demanded rudely.

"I am a Sioux maiden! Do you not know my father?" she replied.

"Ah, but who is your father? What is his name?" he insisted, nervously
fingering his arrows.

"Do not be a coward! Surely you should know a maid of your own race,"
she replied reproachfully.

"Ah, you know the tricks of the doe! What is thy name?"

"Hast thou forgotten the etiquette of thy people, and wouldst compel me
to pronounce my own name? I refuse; thou art jesting!" she retorted
with a smile.

"Thou dost give the tricky answers of a doe. I cannot wait; I must act
before I lose my natural mind. But already I am yours. Whatever purpose
you may have in thus charming a poor hunter, be merciful," and,
throwing aside his quiver, he sat down.

Th