"I—I ask you nothing," I stammered. "All that I know of you is wonderful enough——" Suddenly the danger of the moment opened out before me, checking my very thoughts.
She laid both hands against her temple, pressing them there till her cheeks cooled. So she pondered for a while, her gaze remote. Then, looking fearlessly at me:
"Euan, I am of that sad company of children born without name. I have lately dared to guess who was my father. Presently I will tell you who he was." Her grey and troubled eyes gazed into space now, dreamily. "He died long since. But my mother is living. And I believe she lives near Catharines-town to-day!"
"What! Why do you think so?" I exclaimed, astounded.
"Is not the Vale Yndaia there, near Catharines-town?"
"Yes. But why——"
"Then listen, Euan. Every year upon a certain day—the twelfth of May—no matter where I chance to be, always outside my door I find two little beaded moccasins. I have had them thirteen times in thirteen years. And every year—save the last two—the moccasins have been made a little larger, as though to fit my growing years. Now, for the last two years, they have remained the same in size, fitting me perfectly. And—I never yet have worn them more than to fit them on and take them off."
"Why?" I asked vaguely.
"I save them for my journey."
"What journey?"