Nanca had been childless and that we had brought a child--the daughter
of Theodomir and Nanca--away from the Indian village and had reared her
with my name. Then he showed me with a laugh where three conflicting
meanings might be read from the stilted phrasing and eccentric
punctuation.

"Drop that, old man," said he, "into your chauvinistic little Punch and
Judy court along with the name of the missing Theodomir and watch the
blaze!"

After all, I do not think we will stay here in New York. Nanca is not
at all well. She longs for trees and the open country. We are coming
up to the lodge.

* * * * * *

I'm glad Dad sent for you. I think he is growing fonder of Carl,
though of course his prejudices will probably always flash out now and
then. . . . He's fond of us both, Ann, for all he raves so. No word
of Grant since that night of which you told me. . . . I am sorry.

* * * * * *

You tell me Grant has written to you. Tell him when you write--to
write to me. I miss him.

* * * * * *

Grant has sent me a giant pair of candlesticks from Spain. They are
six feet tall, of age-old wood and Spanish carving. He begs that they
may stand in the Spanish room and makes some incoherent reference to
you in connection with them, out of which I can't for the life of me
extract a grain of sense. If you could have cared for him a little,
Ann!

* * * * * *

I will not take this thing that fate has whipped into my face with a
scornful jeer. Nanca is dead! Her life went out with the life she
gave my daughter. Oh, Ann, Ann, why are you not with me now when I
need you most. After all what is this mortal tegument but a shell
which a man sloughs off in eternal evolution. Outside, the moon is
very bright upon the lake. The "Mulberry Moon," Nanca called it, and
loved its light. It shines in at her window now, but she can not see
it. Ann, because the moon is so bright to-night--because the name of
the moon goddess bears within it your name--let the name of my poor,
motherless little girl be Diane. Nanca called her "Little Red-winged
Blackbird!" I believe at the end she was thinking of the little girl
we left in the Indian village. They are very much alike. Poor Nanca!

The writing broke off with a wild scrawl. With agonized eyes Diane
pushed the letters away and stared at the quiet firelit room, building
a