With a sudden impulse of tenderness he put his arm around her, leading her to the flat rock and seating her there as gallantly as if she were Nevada, whom he loved. It was what his grandfather would have done. Rawley felt suddenly convicted of a fault, almost of a sin; the sin of omission. Here was the love of his grandfather’s youth, the mother of his grandfather’s first-born. And because she was old and fat, because the primitive blood had triumphed and she had yielded to environment and slipped back into Indian ways, he had snobbishly held himself aloof. He had ignored her claim upon his kindness. Had her beauty remained with her, he told himself harshly, his attitude had been altogether different. Now he wanted to make up to her, somehow, for his selfish oversight. He sat down beside her and patted her hand,--for the Anita who had been beautiful, the Anita whom King, of the Mounted, had loved. “You love--my girl--Nevada?” The old squaw spoke abruptly, though her voice held to a dead level of impassivity. “How did you know?” Rawley took away his hand. “I know. I have seen love--in eyes--blue. Eyes like your eyes.” “Nevada doesn’t care anything about me, Anita.” At the word, the old squaw turned her head and stared at him fixedly. “You call that name. Where you know that name? Jess, he call me Annie.” Rawley flushed, but there was no help for it now--or, yes, there was Johnny-- “Johnny Buffalo called you Anita,” he parried. Anita shook her head slowly. “Jawge--your gran’fadder--he call me Anita too,” she said wistfully. “You ver’ much--like Jawge. I firs’ think--you are ghos’ of Jawge, when you come.” “Grandfather was crazy about you,” slipped off Rawley’s tongue. “He spoke of you in his diary--a book where he wrote down things he did--things he thought.” Anita stared down at the river. “You tell me,” she commanded tersely. “All those things--Jawge think--about--Anita.” Rawley’s hand went out and closed again over her wrinkled, work-hardened knuckles. “The first was when he came up to El Dorado on the _Esmeralda_ in ’66. He was leaning over the rail, watching the miners crowd down to the landing. He wrote, ‘I saw a young girl--I think she is Spanish. She has the velvet eyes and the rose blooming in her cheeks. She’s beautiful. Not more than sixteen and graceful as a fairy.’ What more he wrote of you I don’t know. He cut the pages from the book so no one could read it.” Anita raised a knotted, brown hand and smoothed her bangs, tucking them neatly under her red kerchief.