"And at the same time we are in mortal dread lest she marry that prince of all devils, Henri of the White Water. Why she even dresses like an Indian—the only one of the older girls who does not wear the clothing of white women."
"That is because of her artistic temperament. She loves the ease and comfort of the garments. And she realizes their beauty in comparison to the ugliness of the coarse clothing and shoes with which we must provide them."
"Where is she now?"
"Hunting."
Father Ambrose laughed: "And I predict that she will not return until she has brought down her caribou, or her moose. Would your white maiden of nineteen be off hunting alone in the hills with her rifle? No. By our very contentions we have established the dual nature of her. In her the traits of civilization and savagery are not blended, but each in turn dominate and order her thoughts and actions. Hers is what one might term an alternating ego. And it is a thing that troubles me sore. What will happen down there—down at the convent, where they will not understand her, and where there is no hunting? To what end will this marvelous energy exert itself? For, it will not remain pent up within her breast. It will seek outlet. And then?"
"Who can tell?" answered the Nun, thoughtfully. "At least, I shall be glad indeed to know that she will be far from the baleful influence of Henri of the White Water. For, devil that he is, there is no gainsaying the fact that there is something attractive about him, with his bold free manner, and his handsome face, and gay clothing. He is a figure that might well attract a more sophisticated woman
than our little Snowdrift. As yet, though, I think he has failed to rouse in her more than a passing interest. If she cared for him she would not be away hunting while everyone else is eagerly watching for the brigade."
Father Ambrose shrugged: "'Tis past understanding—the way of a maid with a man. But see, here she comes, now." Both watched the lithe form that swung across the clearing from the bush. The girl was hatless, her mass of black hair, caught up and held in place by an ingenious twist of bark. Her face and full rounded throat that rose gracefully from the open collar of a buckskin hunting shirt showed a rich hazel brown in the slanting rays of the sun. Buckskin gloves protected her hands from the ever present mosquitoes. A knee-length skirt of heavy cloth, a pair of deer skin leggings tanned with the hair on, and Indian moccasins completed her costume.
"What luck?" greeted the priest.
The girl paused before them and flashing a smile, disclosed a set of teeth that gleamed like wet pearls: "Good luck," she answered, "A young bull caribou, and two wolves that were just closing in on a cow with a young calf. Every bullet went true. I shot three times. Has the brigade passed?"