"That my mother wore!" Nadara repeated, her brows contracted in a puzzled frown. "When my mother died she wore nothing but a single garment of many small skins--very old and worn--and that was buried with her. I do not understand." She made no effort to open the package, but sat gazing far off toward the ocean which was just visible through the trees, entirely absorbed in the reverie which Waldo's words had engendered. "Could the thing that the old woman told me have been true?" the girl mused half aloud. "Could it have been because it was true that my mother fell upon her with tooth and nail until she had nearly killed her? I wonder if----" But here she stopped, her eyes riveted in sudden fear and hopelessness upon a thing that she had just espied in the distance. A great lump rose in her throat, tears came to her eyes, and with them the full measure of realization of what that thing beyond the forest meant to her. She turned her eyes toward the man. He was sitting with bowed head, playing idly with a large beetle that he had penned within a tiny palisade of small twigs. At length he made an opening in the barrier. "Go your way, poor thing," he murmured. "Heaven knows I realize too well the horrors of captivity to keep any other creature from its fellows and its home." A choking sigh that was almost a sob racked the girl. At the sound Waldo looked up to see her pathetic, unhappy eyes upon him. Of a sudden there enveloped him a great desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. He knew not why she was unhappy, but her sorrow cried aloud to him--as he thought simply to the protective instinct that was merely an attribute of his sex. Nadara raised her hand slowly and pointed through the trees. It was as though she had torn her heart from her breast, so harrowing she felt the consequences of her act would be, but it was for his sake--for the sake of the man she loved. As Waldo's eyes followed the direction of her pointing finger he came suddenly to his feet with a wild cry of joy; through the trees, out upon the shimmering surface of the placid sea, there lay a graceful, white yacht. "Thank God!" cried the man fervently, and sinking to his knees he raised his hands aloft toward the author of joy and sorrow. A moment later he sprang to his feet. "Home! Nadara. Home!" he cried. "Can't you realize it? I am going home. I am saved! Oh, Nadara, child, can't you realize what it means to me? Home! Home! Home!" He had been looking toward the yacht as he spoke, but now he turned toward the girl. She was crouching upon the ground, her face in her hands, her slender figure shaken by convulsive tears. He came toward her and, kneeling, laid his hand upon her shoulder. "Nadara!" he said gently. "Why do you cry, child? What is the matter?" But she only shook her head, moaning. He raised her to her feet, and as he supported her his arm circled her shoulders. "Tell me, Nadara, why you are unhappy?" he urged.