"Diane!" The lantern shone now in her face and Philip was kneeling beside her, his face whiter than her own. "Great God!" said Philip and stared into her haunted eyes with infinite compassion. But Philip, as he frequently said, was preeminently a "practician," wherefore he gently covered the girl with his coat, busied himself with the lantern and, for various reasons, sought to create a general atmosphere of commonplace reality. "Your aunt sent me," he said at length. "She's awfully upset." "She told you?" "Yes." "Of--of the Indian mother?" "I knew," said Philip. "Carl told me. I withheld it this morning purposely. Why fuss about it, Diane? Lord Almighty!" added this exceedingly practical and democratic young man, "I shouldn't worry myself if my grandfather was a salamander! . . . And, besides, your true Indian is an awfully good sport. He's proud and fearless and inherently truthful--" "I know," said Diane. "It isn't that I mind--so much. It--it's the other." "Of course!" said Philip gently, "but, somehow, I can't believe it's true, Diane. There's logic against it. Why, Great Scott!" he added cheerfully, for all there was a lump in his throat at the wistful tragedy in the girl's eyes, "there's Theodomir's own statement in the candlestick--have you forgotten?" "It spoke of--of marriage?" "It said that Theodomir had gone into the Glades hunting and had come upon the Indian village. There he met and married your mother and later divorced her." "If I could only be sure!" faltered Diane. "You can," said Philip, "for I am going back to the Glades to-morrow to hunt this thing to earth. The old chief will know." "But the trail, Philip?" "There are ways of finding it," said Philip reassuringly. He was so cool and matter-of-fact, so entirely cheerful and resourceful, that Diane found his comfortable air of confidence contagious. Only for a time, however. A little later she glanced mutely into his face, met his eyes, flushed scarlet and fell to shaking again. "Philip!" she whispered. "Yes?" There was a wonderful gentleness in Philip's voice. "I--I can't go back to camp yet, for all it's raining." "Well," said Philip comfortably, "rain be hanged. We'll wait a bit." Diane gave a sigh of relief and lay very quiet. Philip wisely said nothing. He shifted the lantern so his own face might be in the shadow and for some reason of his own, fell to speaking of Carl. He told of Mic-co, of the quiet hours of healing by the pool, of another night of storm and stress when Carl had gone forth into the wilds with the Indian girl. For the first time now he felt that he had pierced the girl's shell of tragic introspection and caught her interest. Though the rain came faster and the lantern flickered, Philip went on with his quiet story.