rom his side and faced him with blazing eyes.

"A woman of your people!" she almost hissed. "In your sleep you talked
of her, while the fever-spirit was upon you. I _hate_ her--this Ethel!
She does not love you, for she will marry another! Ah, in the darkness
I have listened, and listening, have learned to _hate_! She sent you
away from her--for, in your eyes she could not read the goodness of
your heart!"

Bill raised his hand.

"You do not understand," he repeated, patiently. "I was not good--I was
a bad man!"

"Who, then, among white men is good? The men of the logs, who drink
whisky, and fight among themselves, and kill one another? Is it these
men that are good in the sight of your woman? And are you, who scorn
these things--are you bad?"

"I, too, drank whisky--and for that reason she sent me away."

"But, you cannot return to her! She is the wife of another! Over and
over again you said it, in the voice of the fever-spirit."

"No," replied the man softly. "To her I cannot return. But, listen; I
start to-morrow for the white man's country. To find the man for whom I
work, and tell him of the bird's-eye.

"Soon I shall come again into the woods. I cannot marry you, for only
evil would come of it. I will bring you many presents, and always we
shall be friends--and more than friends, for you shall be to me a
sister and I shall be your brother, and shall keep you from harm.

"To-morrow I go, and you shall promise me that whenever you are in
trouble of whatsoever kind you will send for me--and I shall come to
you--be it far or near, in the night-time or in the daytime, I will
come--Jeanne, look into my eyes--will you promise?"

The girl looked up, and a ray of hope lightened the pain in her eyes.

"You will surely return into the North?"

"I will surely return."

"I will promise," she whispered, and, side by side, in the silence of
the twilight, they left the clearing.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE ONE GOOD WHITE MAN

The following morning Bill parted from his friends. As he was about to
step into the canoe Jeanne appeared at the water's edge bearing the
mackinaw which he had worn when they drew him from the river.

Without meeting his glance she extended it toward him, speaking in a
low, tense voice.

"In the lining I have sewed them--the papers that fell dripping from
your pocket--and the picture. Many times I have looked upon the face of
this woman, who has caused you pain. And I have hated! Oh,