"What made you come back?" Thomas inquired, curiously.
Ponatah shrugged her shoulders. "There was an end to the money. What could I do? At first I thought I'd be able to help my people, but—I couldn't. They will learn from the white people, but not from one of their own kind."
"Your parents—?"
"They died when I was a baby. Mary took me in." The girl spoke in a flat, emotionless tone.
"It must be tough to come back to this, now that you know what life really is," said Thomas, after a time.
Ponatah's eyes were dark with tragedy when she turned them to the speaker. "God!" she cried, unexpectedly, then abruptly she faced the window once more. It was a moment before she went on in fierce resentment:
"Why didn't they leave me as they found me? Why did they teach me their ways, and then send me back to this—this dirt and ignorance and squalor? Sometimes I think I can't stand it. But what can I do? Nobody understands. Mary can't see why I'm different from her and the others. She has grown rich, with her reindeer; she says if this is good enough for her it should be good enough for me. As for the white men who come through, they can't, or they won't, understand. They're hateful to me. Petersen, the mail-carrier, for instance! I don't know why I'm telling you this. You're strangers. You're probably just like Petersen."
"I know why you're telling us," Thomas said, slowly. "It's because
I—because we're not like Petersen and the others; it's because
I—we can help you."
"Help me?" sneered the girl. "How?"
"I don't know, yet. But you're out of place here. There's a place for you somewhere; I'll find it."