"You were not born in the bush," she reminded, as she added more snow to the pan. "I do not even know your name," she said, gravely, "And yet I feel—" she paused, and Brent, his voice raised hardly above a whisper, asked eagerly:
"Yes, you feel—how do you feel?"
"I feel as though—as though I had known you always—as though you were my friend."
"Yes," he answered, and it was with an effort he kept the emotion from his voice, "We have known each other always, and I am your friend. My name is Carter Brent. And now, tell me something about yourself. Who are you? And why did you tell me you were an Indian?"
"I am an Indian," she replied, quickly, "That is, I am a half-breed. My father was a white man."
"And what is your name?"
"Snowdrift."
"Snowdrift!" he cried, "what an odd name! Is it your last name or your first?"
"Why, it is the only name I have, and I never had any other."
"But your father—what was your father's name?"