Then Mrs. West led her to a seat, and taking both the girl’s hands into her own, told her that the love of all these things was so entirely different from the love she would one day understand, that they would be crowded out and set apart when her heart was ready to receive the great and inevitable passion. “But I do think, dear, that Major Davis was rather premature in his announcement. Perhaps selfishness prompted him, and he spoke before leaving you lest someone else would try to teach my little girl life’s most wonderful and most beautiful lesson. He need not have been so anxious, however, as there are no eligible young men near here, except perhaps my own son.” After a slight pause she added, “But he is—he is—only an Indian!” “Oh, little Mother! What difference need that make! He has the whitest heart! That is his greatest innate quality, the one which prompts him to be a—_man_! God does not make any discrimination between him and me; why should insignificant _I_ presume to.” Impulsively Bess threw her arms about Mrs. West’s neck, and looked deeply into her eyes. For a moment, neither could say a word, and when Mrs. West assumed control of her voice she said: “My dear child—thank you for your sympathy; it helps so much. But, there is all the world—outside there, who do not understand as you do, dear; who do not feel as you feel; who—,” but she could say no more. “Come, little Mother, let us go out by the lake and watch the moon rise. We each need God and nature tonight.” As they passed through the hall-way Bess gently placed a light shawl about Mrs. West’s shoulders, and taking a wrap for herself, together they went out into the night. As she passed the door of the living-room she saw Henry reclining on a cozy couch and knew, from the listless manner in which he held a book, that he had fallen asleep. Over his knees was spread a bright-colored Navajo blanket. Together they walked, their hands clasped in loving pressure. Bess knew where a log, sheltered from any passing breeze, commanded a splendid view of both the lake and the mountains. It was quite a little walk from the house, and gladly Mrs. West seated herself to recover her breath. The scene was too beautiful to be marred by idle words, and each felt that to speak would be sacrilegious. All about them was the purple twilight, deep and silent,—immeasurable silence everywhere, except where the tiny waves splashed against a rock, or a tall pine whispered a tender sigh to a near-by tamarack. Myriads of quivering stars hung balanced in the far-off sky, and occasionally one shot out across the illimitable space, with a tiny trail of light, which suddenly became extinguished as if it had sunk into the sea. By this symbol, the shooting star, the world might know a soul had been released and found its way to heaven. Mrs. West reverently crossed herself, and Bess gave the hand a pressure of understanding.