“I have not quoted him right, not being much of a snap-shot at dialect; and his is an undefined, unclassifiable mixture. Eastern farm-hand and Western ranchman, prospector, who knows what? His real language is in his eye and his rare, pure smile. And just as his countenance expresses his thoughts without circumlocution or attempt at effect, so his body informs his clothing. Wind and rain have moulded his hat to his head, his shoes grip the ground like paws; his buckskins have a surface like a cast after Rodin. They are repousséed by the hard bones and sinews underneath. I can think of nothing but the clothing of Millet's peasants to compare with this exterior of John's. He is himself a peasant of the woods. He has not the predatory instincts. If he could have his way, not a shot would be fired by any of us for the mere idle sport of killing. Shooting these innocent, fearless creatures, who have not learned that we are here for their destruction, is too like murder and treachery combined. Hunger should be our only excuse. My forbearance, or weakness, is a sort of unspoken bond between us. But I am a peasant, too, you know. I do not come of the lordly, arms-bearing blood. I shoot at a live mark always under protest; and when I fairly catch the look in the great eye of a dying elk or black-tail, it knocks me out for that day's hunt.” “Paul is perfectly happy!” Christine broke in. “He has got one of his beloved People to grovel to. They can sleep in the same tent and eat from the same plate, if you like. Why, it's better than the East Side! He'll be blood brother to Packer John before they leave the woods.” Moya blushed with anger. “You have said enough on that subject, Christine.” Mrs. Bogardus bent her dark, keen gaze upon her daughter's face. “Come”--she rose. “Come with me!” Christine sat still. “Come!” her mother repeated sternly. “Moya,”--in a different voice,--“your letter was lovely. Shall you read it to your father?” “Hardly,” said Moya, flushing. “Father does not care for descriptions, and the woods are an old story to him.” Mrs. Bogardus placed her hands on the girl's shoulders and gave her one of her infrequent, ceremonious kisses, which, like her finest smile, she kept for occasions too nice for words. IX THE POWER OF WEAKNESS Christine followed her mother to their room, and the two faced each other a moment in pale silence. Mrs. Bogardus spoke first. “What does this mean?”--her breath came short, perhaps from climbing the stairs. She was a large woman. “What does what mean? I don't understand you, mother.” “Ah, child, don't repulse me! Twice you and Moya have nearly quarreled about those men. Why were you so rude to her? Why did you behave so about her letter?” “Paul is so intolerant! And the airs he puts on! If he is my own brother I must say he's an awful prig about other men.” “We are not discussing Paul. That is not the question now. Have you anything to tell me, Christine?”