reappeared in the doorway, holding her mother's hand and saying some
happy words of farewell. Personally she looked much the same as her
sisters, all Canada through, who are the offspring of red and white
parentage--olive-complexioned, gray-eyed, black-haired, with figure
slight and delicate, and the wistful, unfathomable expression in her
whole face that turns one so heart-sick as they glance at the young
Indians of to-day--it is the forerunner too frequently of "the white
man's disease," consumption--but McDonald was pathetically in love,
and thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his
life.

There had not been much of a wedding ceremony. The priest had
cantered through the service in Latin, pronounced the benediction
in English, and congratulated the "happy couple" in Indian, as a
compliment to the assembled tribe in the little amateur structure
that did service at the post as a sanctuary.

But the knot was tied as firmly and indissolubly as if all Charlie
McDonald's swell city friends had crushed themselves up against the
chancel to congratulate him, and in his heart he was deeply thankful
to escape the flower-pelting, white gloves, rice-throwing, and
ponderous stupidity of a breakfast, and indeed all the regulation
gimcracks of the usual marriage celebrations, and it was with a
hand trembling with absolute happiness that he assisted his little
Indian wife into the old muddy buckboard that, hitched to an
underbred-looking pony, was to convey them over the first stages of
their journey. Then came more adieus, some hand-clasping, old Jimmy
Robinson looking very serious just at the last, Mrs. Jimmy, stout,
stolid, betraying nothing of visible emotion, and then the pony,
rough-shod and shaggy, trudged on, while mutual hand-waves were