steady black eyes. Never more himself, never outwardly more unsuspicious
was the man than on this occasion; even when, the meal complete, the
girl had led him hand in hand out of doors, out into the soft spring
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, abstracted