“The tribe believes he is my father—that I am a gift from the Great Spirit. Crane Bill, my old nurse, told me one time that Tenskwatawa found me in the forest, where the Great Spirit had placed me. That is all I know.” “Have you never questioned Tenskwatawa?” “I have.” “What did he say?” “He said that what the tribe believes is true—and would say no more.” “And Bradford?” “He patted my cheek and told me to be patient—that one day I should know all.” “Nothing more?” She shook her head. “He has always treated you kindly—respectfully?” “Always.” “And you like him?” “I do.” “Better than you like me?” He asked the question innocently—playfully, as he would have put it to a child, expecting her to answer in the same spirit. But she did nothing of the kind. Instead, she placed her hand upon his and began passionately: “Fleet Foot, you will never know——” Then she suddenly checked herself, and, hiding her face, burst into tears. Douglas was surprised—horrified. For the first time, he had an inkling of the truth. He did not know what to do—what to say. Her disheveled, red-gold hair, her beaded dress of bright-colored cloth, her slender form shaking with sobs—all gave her the appearance of a grieved child. The temptation assailed him to take her in his arms, kiss away her tears, and tell her he loved her. But Amy Larkin’s face arose before him; and condemning himself for a weakling, he set his teeth and regained control of himself. When he felt equal to the task, he gently but firmly removed her hands from her face and said: “There—you mustn’t cry anymore. I don’t doubt your friendship.”—He accented the word.—“You’ve been very kind to me; and I appreciate all you have done. Now, if you’ll listen, I’ll tell you the story of my life, in return for what you have told me of yours. Are you ready to hear me?” “Yes,” she answered in an almost inaudible tone, as she dried her eyes and sought to compose her features. Unheeding her evident embarrassment, and the dry sobs that at intervals shook her willowy form, he proceeded to tell her of himself. She listened with rapt attention. When he had finished his narrative, he said: “You see, La Violette, there is great similarity in our experiences.” “Yes,” she murmured softly. “The knowledge should make us closer friends.” He laid stress upon the word friends. “I cannot be a better friend to you than I have been—than I have tried to be, at least,” she replied tremulously. Then she arose and darted from the room. When he had recovered from the surprise her sudden departure had caused him, he muttered gloomily: