A movement behind her, caused her to turn her head quickly. She smothered a cry of fear as she saw approaching through the trees, a tall form closely wrapped in a brightly-colored blanket. How clearly she could distinguish the colors as the man came from the shadows out into the brilliant moonlight. Bess held her breath and did not move as the man stopped and looked searchingly about. Silently he stood; then suddenly flinging out his arms and lifting his face to the witchery of the moon, the blanket fell off his shoulders to the ground about him and revealed Henry West. What a picture he made! His upturned face, silhouetted against the trees, seemed in a halo of light—the arms lifted in an appeal to the sky. The garb of the white man enshrouded him, the robe of the Indian lay at his feet. Slowly he passed his hands across his brow with a despairing gesture, and held them over his eyes, as if they could no longer endure the lovely, if loveless, night. When the object of her alarm had vanished, Bess startled West by springing quickly to the top of the log and saying: “Oh, Henry! How you frightened me! When I saw you stalking through the trees I thought it was an In—!” Quickly as she checked herself, she was not quick enough, for West ended her sentence for her. “Indian! So I was—see, lying here at my feet!” He stooped and picked up the Navajo blanket which he had hastily caught off the couch and wrapped about him when his mother awakened him. He quietly walked over to the girl standing on the log, nonchalantly enfolded himself in the blanket, crossed it over his face to his eyes, and for a moment stood motionless. Bess placed her fingers against her parted lips as if to keep back any idle words. “Sometimes—sometimes—now, I wish all I knew was how to wrap my blanket about me!” he said, with effort. “The great outside world does not want me, cannot understand me. What need or comfort are the things which the world has taught me, when after all, my winding-sheet will be but a blanket? What right has the world to give me a desire for knowledge, a taste of heaven, an understanding of the past, a dread of the future, and then hold up its hands to say, ‘You are still an Indian.’” Again he let the blanket drop at his feet and stood gazing into the moon, while written on his face were despair and longing and resignation. A chord in the girl’s heart was touched at the sight of the strong man before her, and it was set attune to the one which had been awakened in the churchyard, where she once before saw his misery. She sprang lightly to the ground, picked up the blanket and placed it again about his shoulders. “I like to see you so. You are too often sad, Henry. Tell me something I may do to make you happy. Tell me!” Bess entreated.