a soft whisper of an unknown tongue, till the mother shivered, and covered it with her silken hair.
"O beloved!" said the girl, "Chaské calls to all things living—to Kaug, the porcupine, to Wabóse, to Kay-óshk, the gray gull he calls, and they understand."
Kent bent and looked into her eyes.
"Hush, beloved; it is not that I fear."
"Then what, beloved?"
"His shadow. It is white as surf foam. And at night—I—I have seen"
"Oh, what?"
"The air about him aglow like a pale rose."
"Ma cânté maséca. The earth alone lasts. I speak as one dying—I know, beloved!"
Her voice died away like a summer wind.
"Beloved!" he cried.
But there before him she was changing; the air grew misty, and her hair wavered like shreds of fog, and her slender form swayed, and faded, and swerved, like the mist above a pond.
In her arms the babe was a figure of mist, rosy, vague as a breath on a mirror.
"The earth alone lasts. Inâh! It is the end, O beloved!"
The words came from the mist—a mist as formless as the ether—a mist that drove in and crowded him, that came from the sea, from the clouds, from the earth at his feet. Faint with terror, he staggered forward calling, "Be-
