With an exclamation of astonishment, he stooped and picked up a pair of moccasins--small, dainty, and heavily beaded--the very pair he had lost. "See, dearest," he said, "these are the moccasins I had for your birthday. I told you they had been stolen, don't you remember?" The girl turned her sweet face to his. "I'm going to thank you for them now." "I don't deserve it, sweetheart, and I'll tell you why. I wanted to tell you then, but, someway, I didn't have the courage. I didn't know it was your birthday--I'd had the moccasins a long time, but I didn't want George to get the better of me, and so I let you think I knew." The mention of Ronald's name brought tears to her eyes. "I have a confession to make," she said. "Come here." She put her arm around his neck and drew his head down, then whispered to him. "My darling!" he replied, brokenly, "did you think me beast enough to grudge him that? I'm glad you did it and I always will be. Poor lad, he couldn't have you, and you are mine for always." "I know," she sighed; "but I like to think that I made him happy--that he was happy when he died." "He loved you, Bee--almost as much as I do." "He couldn't," she said softly, "for nobody ever loved anybody else as much as you love me"; and he was quite willing to have it so. Shortly afterward he came to an active realisation of the fact that neither of them had eaten anything since morning. He lighted the tallow dip and searched the cabin until he found a generous supply of the plain fare to which they were accustomed. He wanted to build a fire and make some tea for Beatrice, but she refused, and asked for water instead. He went down the bluff and brought her some, but it was so warm as to be almost insipid. After they had eaten, the inevitable reaction came to Beatrice. The high nervous tension of the past week suddenly snapped and left her as helpless as a child. "Oh!" she moaned, "the heat is unbearable--why doesn't it get cool!" She threw herself upon the narrow bed, utterly exhausted. With a clumsy, but gentle touch, he took the pins out of her hair and unfastened her shoes. Beatrice suddenly sat up and threw her shoes into the farthest corner of the cabin. Then a small, soft, indistinct bundle was pushed to the floor. Robert laughed and brought the moccasins. "Will you let me put them on?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer he slipped them on her bare feet, not at all surprised to find that they fitted perfectly. "The little feet," he said, tenderly; "the bare, soft, dimpled things!" "The moccasins are softer," she answered, in a matter-of-fact tone, "and I think I'm going to sleep now." For a long time he sat beside her, holding her hand in his. They talked of the thousand things which had suddenly become important--their first meeting, their individual impressions of it, and of everything that had happened since. With some trepidation he told her that he was mainly responsible for the poem which accompanied the Indian basket.