That dark, stern face was softened, it is true: but it was from the contemplation of her attractive features; pride was changed to satisfaction: but it was because he knew that the graceful figure which clung to her mother for protection would soon lean only on him. She sighed and turned away her face; she trembled and sank upon the mat with weakness; no hope--all her bright visions changed: darkness and gloom had come where day had presided in all her brightness. A short time saw Fiery Man lead to his wigwam his sad young wife, wearied to death with her long journey. Could love have consoled her, she had been happy: for she was as dear as life to the heart of the passionate, overbearing man. As he led her into the wigwam, he pointed to its present occupant. He said she was his sister, but the first glance did the same. There was the tall, gaunt figure; the fierce, flashing eye; the passionate, commanding countenance; but far more repelling in her than in him. White Moon read her own fate; she was to endure hatred as well as love. She could see no shelter from the storm that was settling over her head. CHAPTER III. The sister of Fiery Man stood unnoticed, we have said, in the lodge where White Moon sat with her dead child. On her back she carried a large bundle of wood. As she threw it to the ground, the noise roused White Moon from her dreams. She rose from her mat, clasping the child yet more closely to her breast. Giving one look towards her sister, in which was concentrated all the passion and all the harshness of which she was capable, she left the lodge. The crimson flush soon died away from her face, and she was calm and pale as before. Assisted by several of the women, she proceeded to place her child upon its last resting-place. It was at some distance from the lodge, yet in sight. She returned, and carried to the place of burial the cradle and some little trinkets belonging to the child, and hung them in reach of the infant's hand, on the scaffolding. All day she sat on the ground near it. She wept there, as only a mother can weep, for her first and only child. She refused the food the women offered her; she had not eaten since its death. Even when night came, she was still there, through its long watches giving vent to her violent grief. The breaking of the morn found her sleeping for a short interval on the ground; on awakening, she remembered there were duties that still claimed her care. Her new buffalo-skin lodge was still unfinished, and she had promised her husband she would be in it on her return. The one they were living in was her sister's; it was an old one, torn, and admitting the rain, so that it was not comfortable. Some of the women had assisted her in making it, and she had still to finish and set it up before the evening.