Gian-nah-tah arose, turned around, and squatted down again with his back toward Shoz-Dijiji. The Black Bear shook his head sadly; then he stood up. For a moment he hesitated as though about to speak; but instead he turned, drew his blanket more closely about him, and walked away. His heart was heavy. During his short life he had seen many of his friends killed in battle; he had seen little Ish-kay-nay, his first love, die in his arms, slain by the bullet of a white man; he had seen the look of horror in the eyes of the white girl he had grown to love, when he had avowed that love; he had just seen his father and his mother driven by the injustices of the white conqueror from the society of their own kind; and now he had lost his best friend. The heart of Shoz-Dijiji, the Black Bear, was heavy indeed. Wichita Billings was visiting in the home of Margaret Cullis at the post. The two were sitting in the modest parlor, the older woman sewing, the younger reading. Presently Wichita closed her book and laid it on the table. “I can’t seem to get interested,” she said. “I don’t feel very ‘literary’ tonight.” “You haven’t been yourself all day,” said Mrs. Cullis. “Aren’t you feeling well?” “I feel all right, physically,” replied the girl; “but I’m blue.” “About what?” “O, nothing—I just feel blue. Didn’t you ever feel that way when there wasn’t any reason for it?” “There usually is a reason.” “I suppose so. Perhaps it’s in the air.” There was a silence that lasted a minute or two. “Lieutenant King’s calling this evening.” “I’m sure that shouldn’t make you blue, my dear girl,” exclaimed Margaret Cullis, laughing. “Well, it doesn’t cheer me up much, because I know what he’s going to say; and I know what I’m going to answer. It’s always the same thing.” “I can’t see why you don’t love him, Wichita. It would be a wonderful match for you.” “Yes, for me; but not for him. His people would be ashamed of me.” “Don’t be silly! There isn’t any man or any family too good for you—I doubt if there is any good enough for you.” “You’re a dear, but the fact remains that they are stiff-backed Bostonians with more culture than there is in the whole state that I came from and a family tree that started as a seedling in the Garden of Eden, while I got most of my education out of a mail order catalog; and if I ever had a family tree it must have been blown away by a Kansas cyclone while my folks were fighting Indians. “And speaking of Indians, whom do you think I saw today?” “Who?” “Shoz-Dijiji!” Margaret Cullis looked up quickly. Was it the intonation of the girl’s voice as she spoke the name? The older woman frowned and looked down at her work again. “What did he have to say?” she asked. “Nothing.” “Oh, you didn’t see him to talk with?” “Yes, but he wouldn’t talk to me—just fell back on that maddening ‘No sabe’ that they use with strangers.” “Why do you suppose he did that?” asked Mrs. Cullis. “I hurt him—the last time I saw him,” replied Wichita.