"It was on the Glow Worm River at the Clip
Claw Hills. I came into your father's camp one evening in the autumn,
hungry and tired and knocked about. I was given the next tent to yours.
It was night, and just before I turned in I heard your voice singing. I
couldn't understand much of the language, but I had the sense of it, and
I know it when I hear it again."
"Yes, I remember singing it that night," she said. "Next day was the
Feast of the Yellow Swan."
Her eyes presently became dreamy, and her face took on a distant, rapt
look. She sat looking straight before her for a moment.
He did not speak, for he interpreted the look aright, and he was going to
be patient, to wait.
"Tell me of my father," she said. "You have been kind to him?"
He winced a little. "When I left Fort Charles he was very well," he
said, "and he asked me to tell you to come some day. He also has sent
you a half-dozen silver-fox skins, a sash, and moccasins made by his own
hands. The things are not yet unpacked.
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