"He offered his sisters a great deal of money," she sighed, "but they
wouldn't take me."

"Oh? So he had money?"

"He was one of the first Americans to make money in the Canadian
northwest; but that was after my mother died. She died in the snow, on a
journey--like that sketch above the fireplace. I've been told that it
changed my father's life. He had been what they call wild before that--but
he wasn't so any more. He grew very hard-working and serious. He was one
of the pioneers of that country--one of the very first to see its
possibilities. That was how he made his money; and when he died he left it
to me. I believe it's a good deal."

"Didn't you hate being in the convent?" he asked, suddenly "I should."

"N-no; not exactly. I wasn't unhappy. The Sisters were kind to me. Some of
them spoiled me. It wasn't until after my father died, and I began to
realize--who I was, that I grew restless. I felt I should never be happy
until I was among people of my own kind."

"And how did you get there?"

She smiled faintly to herself before answering.

"I never did. There are no people of my kind."

Embarrassed by the stress she seemed inclined to lay on this circumstance,
he grasped at the first thought that might divert her from it.