"Yes," she answered, making no effort to release the hand, "They need the meat. With the rabbits they can snare, it will keep them all winter. I have not much fur yet—a few fox skins, and some loup cervier. I will bring them to you tomorrow."
"Bring them to me!" cried Brent, "What do you mean? Why should you bring them to me?"
"Why!" she exclaimed, regarding him curiously, "To pay for the meat, of course. A caribou is worth a cross fox, and——"
Brent felt the blood mounting to his face. Abruptly, almost roughly he released the girl's hand. "I did not offer to sell you the meat," he answered, a trifle stiffly. "They need it, and they're welcome to it."
Snowdrift, too, had been thrilled by that handclasp, and the thrill had repeated itself at the gentle pressure of the strong fingers, and she was quick to note the change in the man's manner, and stood uncertainly regarding her bared hand until a big snowflake settled upon it and melted into a drop of water. Then she thrust the hand into her big fur mitten, and as her glance met his, Brent saw that the dark eyes were deep with concern: "I—I do
not understand," she said, softly. "I have made you angry. I do not want you to be angry with me. Do you mean that you want to give them the meat? People do not give meat, excepting to members of their own tribe when they are very poor. But you are not of the tribe. You are not even an Indian. White men do not give Indians meat, ever."
Already Brent was cursing himself for his foolish flare of pride. Again his heart thrilled at the wonder of the girl's absolute unsophistication. Swiftly his hand sought hers, but this time she did not remove it from the mitten. "I am not angry with you, Snowdrift!" he exclaimed, quickly, "I was a fool! It was I who did not understand. But, I want you to understand that here is one white man who does give meat to Indians. And I wish I were a member of your tribe. Sometime, maybe——"
"Oh, no, no! You would not want to be one of us. We are very poor, and we are Indians. You are a white man. Why should you want to live with us?"
"Some day I will tell you why," answered the man, in a voice so low that the dark eyes searched his face wonderingly. "And, now, won't you give me your hand again? To show me that you are not angry with me."
The girl laughed happily: "Angry with you! Oh, I would never be angry with you! You are good. You are the only good white man I have known