“And forever, and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes, The moon and its broken reflection, And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.” Listening to that irresistible voice singing her heart away, the girl broke down and wept. She was so young and so happy. “Look up at me,” bade Mark Carson. “Oh, Pan! Pan! Those tears prove that you are white.” Pan lifted her wet face. “Kiss me, Pan,” said he. It was the first time. Next morning Mark Carson began work on the special-feature article which he had been promising his paper for some weeks. III “Cursed be his ancestors,” bayed Man You. He cast a paper at his daughter’s feet and left the room. Startled by her father’s unwonted passion, Pan picked up the paper, and in the clear passionless light of the afternoon read that which forever after was blotted upon her memory. “Betrayed! Betrayed! Betrayed to be a betrayer!” It burnt red hot; agony unrelieved by words, unassuaged by tears. So till evening fell. Then she stumbled up the dark stairs which led to the high room open to the stars and tried to think it out. Someone had hurt her. Who was it? She raised her eyes. There shone: “Its Wavering Image.” It helped her to lucidity. He had done it. Was it unconsciously dealt—that cruel blow? Ah, well did he know that the sword which pierced her through others, would carry with it to her own heart, the pain of all those others. None knew better than he that she, whom he had called “a white girl, a white woman,” would rather that her own naked body and soul had been exposed, than that things, sacred and secret to those who loved her, should be cruelly unveiled and ruthlessly spread before the ridiculing and uncomprehending foreigner. And knowing all this so well, so well, he had carelessly sung her heart away, and with her kiss upon his lips, had smilingly turned and stabbed her. She, who was of the race that remembers. IV Mark Carson, back in the city after an absence of two months, thought of Pan. He would see her that very evening. Dear little Pan, pretty Pan, clever Pan, amusing Pan; Pan, who was always so frankly glad to have him come to her; so eager to hear all that he was doing; so appreciative, so inspiring, so loving. She would have forgotten that article by now. Why should a white woman care about such things? Her true self was above it all. Had he not taught her _that_ during the weeks in which they had seen so much of one another? True, his last lesson had been a little harsh, and as yet he knew not how she had taken it; but even if its roughness had hurt and irritated, there was a healing balm, a wizard’s oil which none knew so well as he how to apply.