tever it consisted, was over. Wanaha had
just lit the oil lamp which served her in her small home.

The man was stretched full length upon the bed, idly contemplating the
dusky beauty who acknowledged his lordship, while she busied herself over
her shining stove. His face wore a half smile, but his smile was in nowise
connected with that which his eyes rested on.

Yet the sight he beheld was one to inspire pleasurable thoughts. For
surely it falls to the lot of few men, however worthy, to inspire one
woman with such a devotion as Wanaha yielded to him. Besides, she was a
wonderful picture of beauty, colored it is true, but none the less fair
for that. Her long black, braided hair, her delicate, high-bred face so
delightfully gentle, and her great, soft black eyes which had almost, but
not quite, lost that last latent glimmer of the old savage. Surely, she
was worth the tenderest thought.

But Nevil's thoughts were not with her, and his smile was inspired by his
thoughts. The man's mean, narrow face had nothing pleasant in it as he
smiled. Some faces are like this. He was a degenerate of the worst type;
for he was a man who had slowly receded from a life of refinement, and
mental retrogression finds painful expression on such a face. A ruffian
from birth bears less outward trace, for his type is natural to him.

Wanaha always humored her husband's moods, in which, perhaps, she made a
grave error. She held silent until he chose to speak. And when she turned
at last to arrange the supper table, he was so moved. The smile had died
out of his thin face, and his pale blue eyes wore a look of anxious
perplexity when he summoned her attention.

"Wana," he said, as though rousing himself from a long worrying thought,
"we must do something, my Wana. And--I hardly know what."

The black eyes looked straight into the blue ones, and the latter shifted
to the table on which the woman's loving hands had carefully set the
necessaries for supper.

"Tell me," she said simply, "you who are clever--maybe I help."

"That's just it, my Wana. I believe you can. You have a keen brain. You
always help me."

Nevil relapsed into silence, and bit nervously at his thumb nail. The
woman waited with the stoical patience of her race. But she was all
interest, for had not the man appealed to her for help?

"It's your brother," Nevil said at last. "Your brother, and the white girl
at the farm, Rosebud."

"Yes."

The dark eyes suddenly lit.