Her man had been kind to her,
and she had been a faithful wife, but she had resented the natural
instinct of her half-breed child, almost white herself and with the
feelings and ways of the whites, to turn always to her father, as though
to a superior guide, to a higher influence and authority. Was not she
herself the descendant of Blackfoot and Piegan chiefs through generations
of rulers and warriors? Was there not Piegan and Blackfoot blood in the
girl's veins? Must only the white man's blood be reckoned when they made
up their daily account and balanced the books of their lives, credit and
debtor,--misunderstanding and kind act, neglect and tenderness, reproof
and praise, gentleness and impulse, anger and caress,--to be set down in
the everlasting record? Why must the Indian always give way--Indian
habits, Indian desires, the Indian way of doing things, the Indian point
of view, Indian food, Indian medicine? Was it all bad, and only that
which belonged to white life good?
"Look at your face in the glass, Pauline," she added at last. "You are
good-looking, but it isn't the good looks of the whites. The lodge of a
chieftainess is the place for you. There you would have praise and
honour; among the whites you are only a half-breed.
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