er for supper. The fire was burning brightly. Tara had
stretched himself out in a huge, dark bulk in the outer glow of it.
Baree was close to the fire. The girl sat up, rubbed her eyes, and
stared at David.

"_Sakewawin_," she whispered then, looking about her in a moment's
bewilderment.

"Supper," he said, smiling. "I did it all while you were napping, little
lady. Are you hungry?"

He had spread their meal so that she did not have to move from her
balsams, and he had brought a short piece of timber to place as a rest
at her back, cushioned by his shoulder pack and the blanket. After all
his trouble she did not eat much. The mistiness was still in her eyes,
so after he had finished he took away the timber and made of the balsams
a deep pillow for her, that she might lie restfully, with her head well
up, while he smoked. He did not want her to go to sleep. He wanted to
talk. And he began by asking how she had so carelessly run away with
only a pair of moccasins on her feet and no clothes but the thin
garments she was wearing.

"They were in Tara's pack, _Sakewawin_," she explained, her eyes glowing
like sleepy pools in the fireglow. "They were lost."

He began then to tell her about Father Roland. She listened, growing
sleepier, her lashes drooping slowly until they formed dark curves on
her cheeks. He was close enough to marvel at their length, and as he
watched them, quivering in her efforts to keep awake and listen to him,
they seemed to him like the dark petals of two beautiful flowers closing
slumbrously for the night. It was a wonderful thing to see them open
suddenly and find the full glory of the sleep-filled eyes on him for an
instant, and then to watch them slowly close again as she fought
valiantly to conquer her irresistible drowsiness, the merest dimpling
of a smile on her lips. The last time she opened them he had her picture
in his hands, and was looking at it, quite close to her, with the fire
lighting it up. For a moment he thought the sight if it had awakened her
completely.

"Throw it into the fire," she said. "Brokaw made me let him take it, and
I hate it. I hate Brokaw. I hate the picture. Burn it."

"But I must keep it," he protested. "Burn it! Why it's...."

"You won't want it--after to-night."

Her eyes were closing again, heavily, for the last time.

"Why?" he asked, bending over her.

"Because, _Sakewawin_ ... you have me ... now," came her voice, in
drowsy softness; and then the