o save mankind?"
asked Jack, as he recalled the years and years of Chiquita's life in
school, in college, in the hospital, the church and in the society of
the ablest women of the nineteenth century.

"Ah, Jack!" Chiquita waited a moment, then with her bright eyes
reflecting the love of the forest queen for her native haunts, customs
and the freedom of the woods, she continued, "The God who gave you the
Christ gave you also wisdom, and with that wisdom cruel weapons to drive
the weaker to destruction. The paleface has driven the red man to his
death. My people share not the needs nor desires which civilization
brings to the white brethren, nor the society demands which make our
paleface sister a slave to her calling. Jack, I have lived among my
white sisters, I have been one of them, been sought for, banqueted,
heralded and had tributes of honor thrust upon me. No school, no church,
no institution of science, no club, no society, no matter how select,
has been other than glad to have Chiquita honor them with her presence.
With wealth untold and accomplishments unattained before by any woman in
the world, Chiquita returns to her forest home for peace and
contentment. 'In my Father's house are many mansions.' Yes, Jack, and
the tepees of the great Indian nation stretch beyond the sky to welcome
Chiquita. See, Jack, father, mother, the braves in all their glorious
array are waiting for Chiquita! 'Our Father,' the Great Spirit of both
the red and white man, welcomes. It is in the peace of the Happy Hunting
Ground that we find rest. Adios, Jack. The great Yamanatz will soon
follow and it will not be long ere all my people are as the buffalo, and
the white man alone in the land that once was a paradise, but the
mockery of civilization turned it into a stench hole of iniquity and
market place of educated vampires, against which the child of the forest
of the same God had no"-- The voice failed to respond to the effort.
Chiquita was dead. And with her was buried that undying, unquenchable,
unsung love which consumed her heart.

A camp bird, in subdued autumn plumage of black and pearl gray, mewed
plaintively as the old warrior came forth from the tepee. The wrinkled
visaged chief beat his breast and muttered in Ute dialect the prayers of
a bereaved father for a dead daughter. The old "medicine" chief ceased
to bang the tom-tom and the jargon of the squaws was silenced. Jack
looked on with keen disappointment. For years he had