LITMIR.BIZ

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said to-morrow would be the day to hope for a change, either for the better or--"

      But the alternative was not a thing easy for the good soul to contemplate, and she left the sentence unfinished and disappeared into the cabin again, while the man outside dropped his head in his hands, feeling the most helpless creature in all the world.

      "Better to-morrow, or--worse;" that was what Mrs. Huzzard meant, but could not utter. Better or worse! And if the last, she might be dying now, each minute! And he was powerless to help her--powerless even to utter all the regret, the remorse, the heart-aching sorrow that was with him, for her ears were closed to the sense of words, and his lips were locked by some key of some past.

      His own judgment on himself was not light as he went over in his mind each moment of their hours together. Poor little 'Tana! poor little stray!

      "I promised not to question her; yes, I promised that, or she would never have left the Indians with me. And I--I was savage with her, just because she would not tell me what she had a perfect right to keep from me if she chose. Even if it was--a lover, what right had I to object? What right to hold her hands--to say all the things I said? If she were a woman, I could tell her all I think--all, and let her judge. But not as it is--not to a girl so young--so troubled--so much of a stray. Oh, God! she shall never be a stray again, if only she gets well. I'd stay here digging forever if I could only send her out in the world among people who will make her happy. And she--the child, the child! said she would rather live here as we did than to have the gold that would make her rich. God! it is hard for a man to forget that, no matter what duty says."

      So his thoughts would ramble on each day, each night, and his restlessness grew until Harris took to watching him with a great pity in his eyes, and mutely asked each time he entered if hope had grown any stronger.

      By the request of Mrs. Huzzard they had moved Harris into the other room of the cabin, because of a rain which fell one night, and reminded them that his earthen floor might prove injurious to his health. Mrs. Huzzard declared she was afraid, with that room empty; and Harris, though having a partially dead body, had at least a living soul, and she greatly preferred his presence to the spiritless void and the fear of Indian occupancy.

      So she shared the room with 'Tana, and the doctor and Overton used one tent, while the squaw used the other. All took turns watching at night beside the girl, who never knew one from the other, but who talked of gold--gold that was too heavy a load for her to carry--gold that ran in streams where she tried to find water to drink and could not--gold that Dan thought was better than friends or their pretty camp. And over those woes she would moan until frightened from them by ghosts, the ghosts she hated, and which she begged them so piteously to keep out of her sight.

      So they had watched her for days, and toward the evening of the eighth Overton was keeping an ever-watchful ear for the Indian and the doctor who had gone personally to fetch needed medicines from the settlement.

      Akkomi was there as usual. Each day he would come, sit in the doorway of the Harris cabin for hours, and contemplate the helpless man there. When evening arrived he would enter his canoe and go back to his own camp, which at that time was not more than five miles away.

      Overton, fearing that Harris would be painfully annoyed by the presence of this self-invited visitor, offered to entertain him in his own tent, if Harris preferred. But while Harris looked with no kindly eye on the old fellow, he signified that the Indian should remain, if he pleased. This was a decision so unexpected that Overton asked Harris if he had ever met Akkomi before.

      He received an affirmative nod, which awakened his curiosity enough to make him question the Indian.

      The old fellow nodded and smoked in silence for a little while before making a reply; then he said:

      "Yes, one summer, one winter ago, the man worked in the hills beyond the river. Our hunters were there and saw him. His cabin is there still."

      "Who was with him?"

      "White man, stranger," answered Akkomi briefly. "This man stranger, too, in the Kootenai country--stranger from away somewhere there," and he pointed vaguely toward the east. "Name--Joe--so him called."

      "And the other man?"

      "Other man stranger, too--go way--never come back. This one go away, too; but he come back."

      "And that is all you know of them?"

      "All. Joe not like Indian friends," and the old fellow's eyes wrinkled up in the semblance of laughter; "too much tenderfoot, maybe."

      "But Joe's partner," persisted Overton, "he was not tenderfoot? He had Indian friends on the Columbia River."

      "Maybe," agreed the old fellow, and his sly, bead-like eyes turned toward his questioner sharply and were as quickly withdrawn, "maybe so. They hunt silver over there. No good."

      Just inside the door Harris sat straining his ears to catch every word, and Akkomi's assumption of bland ignorance brought a rather sardonic smile to his face, while his lips moved in voiceless mutterings of anger. Impatience was clearly to be read in his face as he waited for Overton to question further, and his right hand opened and closed in his eagerness.

      But no other questions were asked just then; for Overton suddenly walked away, leaving the crafty-eyed Akkomi alone in his apparent innocence of Joe's past or Joe's partner.

      The old fellow looked after him kindly enough, but shook his head and smoked his dirty black pipe, while an expression of undivulged knowledge adorned his withered physiognomy.

      "No, Dan, no," he murmured. "Akkomi good friend to little sick squaw and to you; but he not tell--not tell all things."

      Then his ears, not so keen as in years gone by, heard sounds on the water, sounds coming closer and closer. But Dan's younger ears had heard them first, and it was to learn the cause that he had left so abruptly and walked to the edge of the stream.

      It was the doctor and the Indian boatman who came in sight first around the bend of the creek. Back of them was another canoe, but a much larger, much more pretentious one. In this was Lyster and a middle-aged gentleman of rather portly build, who dressed in a fashion very fine when compared with the average garb of the wilderness.

      Overton watched with some surprise the approach of the man, who was an utter stranger to him, and yet who bore a resemblance to some one seen before. A certain something about the shape of the nose and general contour of the face seemed slightly familiar. He had time to notice, also, that the hair was auburn in color, and inclined to curl, and that back of him sat a female form. By the time he had made these observations, their boat had touched the shore, and Lyster was shaking his hand vigorously.

      "I got your letter, telling me of your big strike. It caught me before I was quite started for Helena, so I just did some talking for you where I thought it would do the most good, old fellow, and turned right around and came back. I've been wild to hear about 'Tana. How is she? This is my friend, Mr. T. J. Haydon, my uncle's partner, you know. He has made this trip to talk a little business with you, and when I learned you were not at the settlement, but up here in camp, I thought it would be all right to fetch him along."

      "Of course it is all right," answered Overton, assuringly. "Our camp has a welcome for your friend even if we haven't first-class accommodations for him. And is this lady also a friend?"

      For Lyster, forgetful of his usual gallantry, had allowed the doctor to assist the other voyager from the canoe--a rather tall lady of the age generally expressed as "uncertain," although the certainty of it was an indisputable fact.

      A rather childish hat was perched upon her thin but carefully frizzed hair, and over her face floated a white veil, that was on a drawing string around the crown of the hat and drooped gracefully and chastely over the features beneath, after the fashion of 1860. A string of beads adorned the thin throat, and the rest of her array was after the same order of elegance.

      The doctor and Lyster exchanged glances, and Lyster was silently proclaimed master of ceremonies.

      "Oh, yes," he said, easily. "Pardon me that I am neglectful, and let me introduce you to Miss Slocum--Miss

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