For some time Billy Jackrabbit had been standing by the table looking greedily down upon the charlotte russes there. He was on the point of putting his finger through the centre of one of them when Wowkle--the Indian woman-of-all-work of the cabin, who sat upon the floor before the fire singing a lullaby to the papoose strapped to its cradle on her back--turning suddenly her gaze in his direction, was just in time to prevent him. “Charlotte rusk--Palmetto rest’rant--not take,” were her warning words. Jackrabbit drew himself up quickly, but he was furious at interference from a source where it was wholly unexpected. “Hm--me honest,” he growled fiercely, flashing her a malignant look. “Huh?” was Wowkle’s monosyllabic observation delivered in a guttural tone. All of a sudden, Jackrabbit’s gaze was arrested by a piece of paper which lay upon the floor and in which had been wrapped the charlotte russes; he went over to it quickly, picked it up, opened it and proceeded to collect on his finger the cream that had adhered to it. “Huh!” he growled delightedly, holding up his finger for Wowkle’s inspection. The next instant, however, he slumped down beside her upon the floor, where both the man and the woman sat in silence gazing into the fire. The man was the first to speak. “Send me up--Polka. Say, p’haps me marry you--huh?” he said, coming to the point bluntly. Wowkle’s eyes were glued to the fire; she answered dully: “Me don’t know.” There was a silence, and then: “Me don’t know,” observed Jackrabbit thoughtfully. A moment later, however, he added: “Me marry you--how much me get give fatha--huh?” Wowkle raised her narrowing eyes to his and told him with absolute indifference: “Huh--me don’t know.” Jackrabbit’s face darkened. He pondered for a long time. “Me don’t know--” suddenly he began and then stopped. They had been silent for some moments, when at last he ventured: “Me give fatha four dolla”--and here he indicated the number with his two hands, the finger with the cream locking those of the other hand--“and one blanket.” Wowkle’s eyes dilated. “Better keep blanket--baby cold,” was her ambiguous answer. Whereupon Jackrabbit emitted a low growl. Presently he handed her his pipe, and while she puffed steadily away he fondled caressingly the string of beads which she wore around her neck. “You sing for get those?” he asked. “Me sing,” she replied dully, beginning almost instantly in soft, nasal tones: “_My days are as um grass_”-- Jackrabbit’s face cleared. “Huh!” he growled in rejoicement. Immediately Wowkle edged up close to him and together they continued in chorus: “_Or as um faded flo’r, Um wintry winds sweep o’er um plain, We pe’ish in um ho’r._” “But Gar,” said the man when the song was ended, at the same time taking his pipe away from her, “to-morrow we go missionary--sing like hell--get whisky.” But as Wowkle made no answer, once more a silence fell upon them.