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His face was hard set. He stepped out into the snowstorm and the night. Rolf was left alone with Skookum. Sad, sad, everything seemed sad in his friend's life, and Rolf, brooding over it with wisdom beyond his years, could not help asking: "Had Quonab and Gamowini been white folk, would it have happened so? Would his agony have been received with scornful indifference?" Alas! he knew it would not.
Whether he heard or not, the warm emanation surely reached the Indian, and he began to answer the question of an hour before: "Her name was Gamowini, for she sang like the sweet night bird at Asamuk. I brought her from her father's house at Saugatuck. We lived at Myanos. She made beautiful baskets and moccasins. I fished and trapped; we had enough. Then the baby came.
He had big round eyes, so we called him Wee-wees, 'our little owl, and we were very happy. When Gamowini sang to her baby, the world seemed full of sun. One day when Wee-wees could walk she left him with me and she went to Stamford with some baskets to sell. A big ship was in the harbour. A man from the ship told her that his sailors would buy all her baskets. She had no fear.
The Indian's face darkened. "I threw it after the ship that stole my Gamowini." Rolf Meets a Canuck The winter might have been considered eventful, had not so many of the events been repetitions of former experience. But there were several that by their newness deserve a place on these pages, as they did in Rolf's memory. One of them happened soon after the first sharp frost.
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