night, out under the stars where she had stretched the two robes intimately close. Thus, side by side, but not touching, they lay there, the soft south breeze fanning their faces, whispering wordless secrets in their ears; about them the friendly enveloping darkness, in their nostrils the subtle, indescribable fragrance of awakening earth and of growing things. But not even then could the girl be still. Far too full of this day's revelation and of anticipation of things to come was she to be silent. The mood of her merely changed. The chatter, heretofore aimless, ceased. In its place came a definite intent, a motive that prompted a definite question. She was lying stretched out like a child, her crossed arms pillowing her head, her eyes looking up into the great unknown, when she gave it voice. Even when she had done so, she did not alter her position. "I wonder," she said, "whether if one has made a mistake, it were better to go on without acknowledging it, living a lie and dying so, or to admit it and make another, who is innocent, instead of one's self, pay the penalty?" She paused for breath after the long sentence. "What do you think, How?" In the semi-darkness the man looked at her. Against the lighter sky her face stood out distinct, clear-cut as a silhouette. "I do not think it ever right to live a lie, Bess," he answered. "Not even to keep another, who is innocent, from suffering?" "No," quickly, "not even to keep another from suffering." The girl shifted restlessly, repressedly. "But supposing one's acknowledging the lie and living the truth makes one, according to the world, bad. Would that make any difference, How?" The Indian did not stir, merely lay there looking at her with his steady eyes. "There are some things one has to decide for one's self," he said. "I think this is one of them." Again the arms beneath the girl's head shifted unconsciously. "Others judge us after we do decide, though," she objected. "What they think doesn't count. We're good or bad, as we're honest with ourselves or not." "You think that, really?" "I know it, Bess. There's no room for doubt." Silence fell, and in it the girl's mind wandered on and on. At last, abrupt as before, abstractedly as before, came a new thought, a new query. "Is happiness, after all, the chief end of life, How?" she questioned. "Happiness, Bess?" He halted. "Happiness?" repeated; but there was no irony in the voice, only, had the girl noticed, a terrible mute pain. "How should I know what is best in life, I, who have never known life at all?" Blind in her own abstraction, the girl had not read beneath the words themselves, did not notice the thinly veiled inference. "But you must have an idea," she pressed. "Tell me." This time the answer was not concealed. It stood forth glaring, where the running might read. "Yes, I have an idea--and more," he said. "Happiness, your happiness, has always been the first thing in my life."