moccasins of it, you've only a knife and your hands. And you speak the Indian languages! You talked with that chief and you talked with your wife.”

She praised trivialities-a stock in trade common to all his fellows; and this indicated how far she was removed from him.

"I have a smack of Nez Percé, and a little Blackfoot," he made shift. "A few words, and signs, go a long way. But most of the mountain Indians understand Shoshoni, and the plains Indians employ the Sioux. Those are easy for a white man to acquire."

'If you didn't have to take me out, what would you do, I wonder," she pursued. "Would you go anyway? You've no supplies, nor horse, nor gun. Why dry that powder?

"I can't say," he smiled. "In the mountains we always prepare for the best as well as for the worst. The horn was stoppered, the powder is only a little dampened. There may be another gun

"You mean Mr. Duncan's." He had sobered her. "That is so. I forgot. It's much like yours was, isn't it? And the chief has it. At least, I saw it."

"Aye," he answered. "My balls would fit it, I think. Powder might be needed. But for that matter a man with flint and steel, and a knife, at this season, is to be counted rich. He could equip himself with bow and arrows-better, to most purposes, than a rifle. With the bow he could kill his meat. With the flint and steel he could light a fire and cook his meat. With the knife he could skin his game and get his clothing and lodge cover. With a hide rope he could catch a horse or two. He could live on indefinitely, if the Indians permitted."

She fell silent; he scraped at the skin and knew that she was looking at him and past him. And she asked:

"I'll need moccasins, Ralph? We've far to go?"

"It may be two or three days yet to the trail, through a rough country. How far ahead the missionaries are I can't say."

“In the morning, if you're rested."

"We must hurry? We're in danger still?"

"I think the Blackfeet have turned back, else they'd have pressed after at once. But we ought not to lose time. Every day takes the missionary women farther. I aim to place you with them the soonest possible. Then you'll have more comfort."

"Comfort," she repeated, with a certain shadowing daze in her eyes. "Will I find comfort? There? Yes," she added, "we'll start early. I'd better sleep now. I'm so tired. Thank you for all you've done for me, Ralph. I'll think of you often, leading your wild life and contented in it. How strange that we should be here, like this, when we parted last in England!"

"Aye," he assented, a dumb dolt but all quivering.

Strange? More strange, that he had not found it so. Years had closed over a gap. Yellow Buffalo, Dawn Star, lodge, beaver, Black Harris, Bridger, Le Borgne, battle, rendezvous frolic, wild to-days, grim to-morrows, were as not, or as though he had read them in a story book. Man in leather, a shaggy man (which did puzzle him until he accepted it as a masque), nevertheless he was Ralph Stockbridge talking rationally with Alice, quite as though he had been recalled from the book, or from a curious delirium.

She said no more. He worked on, at his moccasin stock; and pausing to renew the fire he saw that she was asleep, her cheek upon her hand. She faintly smiled, as if to reassure his eyes; her bosom gently heaved. If this

was an illusion, it was perfect, entreating him with presage of generous nights and days yet to be. And then he saw the child, and that confounded him.

Not theirs! No! A dark child, an Indian woman's child, visible reminder that he still dreamed in fancying Alice Colton white squaw to a white Indian. The babe was the float sign.

The ass to his crop of thistles. She had said that she would often think of him. In what light? He begged of her charity. God knew he feared that he would often think of her.

He attacked the hide again; and having done his utmost he sat on guard, sometimes dozing, sometimes listening, occasionally feeding the fire, and always alert. She did not stir, although the wolves prowled, seeking more bones.

The night of peace promised well. There was no oneeyed foe; the War Eagle had declared truce. Not a sound disturbed the valley dawn when he stood and moving softly lest he waken her (still sweetly asleep) he began the preparations for the day of travel.

He washed, he laid apart meat for breakfast, he freshened the fire with cedar in order to provide coals, and taking the remainder of the meat and sections of the elk hide he withdrew a little distance and bound the meat in parcels-wrapping it and tying it with hide thongs, for easier carrying.

And then (all this in the gray, with an eye upon her), as the danger hour had passed he started upon a circuit, to reconnoiter for signs. She would like a time to herself, he thought, when she woke; for she was a white

woman.

When he again came in sight of the camp she was already up; not only up, but busy and had been busied,

for she greeted him with happy mood challenging. The meat was sizzling from the spits; débris had somehow been brushed away; the child had been tended to-it was clean: and bright and buoyant herself she laughed triumph at his astounded visage.

"You see, sir, I have learned. You have given me no lodge to make neat and no pot to keep filled, but I have tidied up, I am cooking your breakfast for you. I've done my best with what I have. Ought I to warm water for you? But what in?"

He smiled.

"A piece of the elk hide gathered at the corners to form a basin, with a hot stone thrown in, has been tried before."

"You didn't tell me," she reproved. member, for the next time."

"But I'll re

"Never!" he exclaimed. "Never, never!"

'Why? Am I so awkward?"

"I'll not have you doing the work of a squaw," he pronounced.

"Nevertheless," she said, "a squaw seems necessary to you."

"Aye, if so," said he, dourly. "But she would be an Indian woman, wonted to that kind of work. I think you've washed the child, too," he added, accusing.

"Yes, I have." That swept the brightness from her face. "I had to. I don't believe it liked it. Hasn't it a birthmark on its shoulder? Was the mother frightened, once, Ralph?"

"The mark has always been there," he shortly answered. "About the mother I know nothing. It is not my child."

She stared upon him, and her ejaculation burst: "Not your child?"

CHAPTER XXIV

UP FROM AVERNUS

SHE said again: "Not yours!"

"No." What was the "sign" now? "I found it in a scrimmage with the Indians.'

She flatly sat down, still agog.

"You didn't tell me! I didn't know!"

"I saw no reason to tell you. What difference? It should be less to you now than ever.

I gave it to the Dawn Star for one she had lost, is all. My affair. I'll

keep on tending to it."

"Oh, oh!" she uttered. What difference, you ask? flushed with excitement.

"No, you won't understand.

Why!" She leaped up, all What shall we do? What can't we do! It isn't yours? I've tried not to hate itI've tried not to be shamed by hating it. Do you think I haven't suffered by seeing it-your child, with an Indian wife its mother? Yes, any mother! I've suffered. You can call me jealous, Ralph. I needn't be jealous now, even of her own baby. She is gone, too; but this -this remained. It seemed to stand between us forever. Why don't you speak? Have you nothing to say?" "Alice!" he stammered. Dared he believe? Could he read such sign?

"Of course you can't care for it-unless you get another wife," she resumed. "Are you very fond of it? We'll take it out with us, to the missionary women. Then you can leave it, with them, and me. I'll look after it for you. Missionaries are supposed to train Indian children, aren't they?"

"I wonder if you're mocking me," he slowly said.