ulsive features of the old crone, and the
swart countenance of the half-breed were inextricably blended.

For two weeks he lay, interspersing long periods of unconsciousness
with hours of wild, delirious raving. Then the disease wore itself out,
and Jeanne Lacombie, entering the tepee one morning, encountered the
steady gaze of the sunken eyes.

With a short exclamation of pleasure she crossed the intervening space
and knelt at his side. The two regarded each other in silence. At
length Bill's lips moved and he started slightly at the weak, toneless
sound of his own voice.

"So you are real, after all," he smiled.

The girl returned the smile frankly.

"M's'u' has been very sick," she imparted, speaking slowly, as though
selecting her words.

Bill nodded; he felt dizzy and helplessly weak.

"How long have I been here?" he asked.

"Since the turning of the moon."

"I'm afraid that is not very definite. You see I didn't even know the
moon had been turned. Who turned it? And is it really turned to cheese
or just turned around?"

The girl regarded him gravely, a puzzled expression puckering her face.
Bill laughed.

"Forgive me," he begged. "I was talking nonsense. Can you tell me how
many days I have been here?"

"It is fifteen days since we drew you from the river."

"Who's _we_?"

Again the girl seemed perplexed.

"I mean, who helped you pull me out of the drink?"

"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. She is my mother. She is an Indian, and very old."

"Are _you_ an Indian?" asked the man in such evident surprise that the
girl laughed.

"My father was white. I am a breed," she answered; then with a quick
lifting of the chin, hastened to add: "But not like the breeds of the
rivers! My father was Lacombie, the factor at Crossette, and
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta was the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, and they were
married by a priest at the mission.

"That was very long ago, and now Lacombie is dead and the priest also,
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta has a paper; also it is written in the book at the
mission that men may read it and know."

Carmody was amused at her eagerness and watched the changing expression
of her face as she continued more slowly:

"My father was good. But he is dead and, until you came, there has been
no good white man."

Bill smiled at the naive frankness of her.

"Why do you think that I am good?" he inquired.

"In your eyes I have read it. That night, before the wild fever-spirit
entered your body, I looked lo