She hastened to interrupt him: "Nothing is the matter!" she cried, with an obviously forced gaiety. "But, tell me, where did you come from—before you came to the Yukon? All my life I have wanted to know more of the land that lies to the southward
—the land of the white man. Father Ambrose and Sister Mercedes told me much—but it was mostly of the church. And Henri of the White Water told me of the great stores in Edmonton where one may buy fine clothes, of other stores where one may sell hooch without fear of the police, and also where one may win money with cards. But, surely, there are other things. The white men, and the women, they do not always go to church and buy clothes, and drink hooch, and gamble with cards. And are all the women beautiful like the pictures in the books, and in the magazines?"
Brent laughed: "No, all the women are not beautiful. It is only once in a great while that one sees a really beautiful woman, and you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen——"
"But I am not beautiful!" cried the girl, "Not like the pictures."
"The pictures are not pictures of real women, they are creations of an artist's brain. The pictures are the artist's conception of what the real women should be."
Snowdrift regarded him with a puzzled frown: "Is it all make-believe, in the land of the white man? The books—the novels that tell of knights in armor, and of the beautiful ladies with their clothes, and their rings of the diamonds that sparkle like ice—and other novels that tell of suffering, and of the plotting of men and women who are very bad—and of the doings of men and women who are
good—Sister Mercedes said they are all lies—that they are the work of the brain of the man who wrote it down. Is it all lies and make-believe? Do the white men use their brains only to tell of the doings of people who have never lived, and to make pictures of people and things that never were? Do you, too, live in the make-believe? You have told me you love me. And just now you told me that I was the most beautiful woman you have seen. Those are the words of the books—of the novels. Always the man must tell the woman she is the most beautiful woman in the world. And it is all make-believe, and in the words is no truth!"
"No, no, dear! You do not understand. I don't know whether I can explain it, but it is not all make-believe—by a long shot! Life down there is as real as it is here. There are millions of people there and for them all life is a struggle. Millions live in great cities, and other millions live in the country and raise grain with which to feed themselves, and the millions who live in the cities. And the people in the cities work in great factories, and make the clothing, and the tools, and guns, and everything that is used by themselves and by the people who live outside the cities, and they build the ships and the railroads which carry these goods to all parts of the world. But you have read of all that in the books—and the books are not all lies and make-believe, for they tell of life as it is—not as any one or a dozen characters live it—but as
thousands and millions live it. The comings and goings of the characters are the composite comings and goings of a thousand or a million living breathing people. And because each person is too busy—too much occupied with his own particular life, he does not know of the lives of the other millions. But he wants to know—so he reads the books and the magazines, and the newspapers." The girl hung absorbed upon his words, and for an hour Brent talked, describing, explaining, detailing the little things and the great things, the common-places, and the wonders of the far-off land to the southward. But of all the things he described, the girl was most interested in the libraries with their thousands and thousands of books that one might read for the asking—the libraries, and the clothing of the women.
"All my life," she concluded, "I have wanted to go to the land of the white man, and see these things myself. But, I never shall see them, and I am glad you have told me more."