and her weary head has drooped; and the leaves and dust have fallen thick upon her from the underbrush that has sprung up so rankly about her; so that sometimes you might think she was not a woman at all, but only a mound of earth. Yet she is not dead. No! The rains and winds, of course, have worn away the expression from her face, until it looks dull and sad and lifeless; but, for all that, she is not dead. Her arms and knees must have grown very tired in the long vigil she has been keeping, and one would suppose they would have crumbled into earth before now. But, you see, the wild vines have reached out from the surrounding trees to support her; and they have encircled her lovingly, lending their strength, that she may not fail of her purpose. No; she is not dead. If you could only discover the exact place, you would find her still alive. But we do not know where it is. * * * * * All four remained silent for a few moments, after Adela had finished her legend. Lance had listened with profound attention; and the shadowy, fantastic outlines of the narrative were so extraordinary, that he was at first too much astonished and perplexed to know what to think or say about it. Clearly enough, that which the girl had told might be interpreted as a sequel to the history of Gertrude Wylde, after his ancestor, Guy Wharton, had lost trace of her. It was impossible to say just what the tradition, now so vague and impossible, had originally come from. But the blending of the white and Indian races at which it hinted, the looking eastward, and the idea of endless waiting and expectancy that ran all through it--did not these things point plainly toward the old romance with which his family was connected? He did not believe that his imagination alone was responsible for these suggestions, because Adela could not possibly know what he knew--her story was an inheritance so carefully guarded, that even Jessie had not heard it until now--and yet here were these salient details that fitted on so naturally to his own tradition, and supplemented it. Then, too, there was the old, transmitted rhyme. Ah, that was the clew! It clinched all the parts of his guess-work together. "Was Ewayeá one of your people, then?" he asked, at length. Adela looked at him with surprise, as if he were asking about something which had already been explained. "Why, I thought I said so," she answered. "We _came_ from her." Old Reefe, roused perhaps by Lance's voice, opened his eyes, and, hearing his daughter's statement, nodded a silent corroboration. "And that charm," Lance continued--"the one that you put on the belt--came from her, too? Did she teach it to her children?" "Yes; that came from her, too," said Adela.