“But why?”
“Experience, prejudice, color—distrust. Once I was on Lake Superior, Rose, in a boat in a storm. Our two Indian guides simply lay down and wilted. We could get no help from either. And a curious thing happened that night. We landed on a beach at the river of the Evil Manitou. When the Indians learned that I meant to camp there, they tried to steal a canoe and run away, explaining that to sleep there would cause the death of some one of their people. I could not stand this, because we needed the third canoe. It ended by our keeping watch, revolver in hand, all night. When we reached Duluth, an old Indian—a Chippeway, of course—was waiting to tell one of my guides that his sister had died that morning.”
“What did he say to you, papa?”
“Only, ’Me telly you so.’”
“And didn’t you feel very, very badly? You know, dear M. A., you are quite a bit superstitious yourself.”
“As to the first question, No. I was sorry, but—Get into the canoe—so—facing the bow. I sha’n’t see your face when you talk, and I can fib without those nice eyes of yours making righteous comments.”
“A tête-à-tête back to back might have its advantages,” she returned, laughing, “for a cœur-à-cœur at least, papa.”
“I trust that is in the dim distance, my child.”
“How serious you are, Pardy!”
He was troubled at times lest this best of his dear comrades should find another man whom she would love more than she loved the father-friend.