The squaw nodded gravely: "You are a good man," she said, simply. "You have dealt fairly. Sometime, maybe you will know that Wananebish does not forget."
Two hours later, when the price of the pelt had been paid and the supplies all made into packs and carried to the toboggans that had been left before the door, the Indians wrapped their blankets about them and prepared to depart.
As the Indian woman wrapped the baby in warm woolens, Margot urged her to remain until the
storm subsided, but the woman declined with a smile: "No. These are my people. I will go with them. Where one goes, all go."
"But the baby! This is a terrible storm to take a baby into."
"The baby is warm. She does not know that it storms. She is one of us. Where we go, she goes, too."
As the Indians filed through the door into the whirling white smother the young squaw stepped to the counter for a last look at her black fox skin. She raised it in her hand, drew it slowly across her cheek, stroked it softly, and then returned it to the counter, taking deliberate care to lay it by itself apart from the other skins. Then she turned and was swallowed up in the storm as MacFarlane closed the door behind her.
"Ye could of bought it for half the price!" growled old Molaire, as his son-in-law returned to the card table.
"Aye," answered the younger man as he resumed his cards. "But the Company has still a good margin of profit. They're headin' for the barrens, an' if, as she said, they have bad luck some of 'em would die. An' you know who would be the first to go—it would be the babies. I'm glad I done as I did. I'll sleep better nights."
"And I'm glad, too," added Margot, as she reached over and patted her husband's hand, "And so is papa way down in his heart. But he loves to