he had never suspected himself of capacity to possess; and she had loved in return. And now?
He sat up and pulled himself together. What had happened, he said to himself, had proved simply another trial ordained for his confusion. He had dared to love, to loose the fleshly desires of missawenimowen which had destroyed his mother. Now he must continue to love; and know no love.
He reread his lover's letter. She had no need to ask him not to follow her. He was sure that he understood too well her reasons for flight; and he blamed her not at all. The wonder was, not that she had now fled from him, but that she had submitted herself to so much for him,—to hostility of all her own people when she had stood alone with him against them. It had become too much for her.
He closed his eyes, thinking of her, kind and sweet and gentle to him always; he thought of how she had given herself to his arms, how he had held her and kissed her, and she had clung to him; and something of the mystic and the magic of his Indian rearing recaptured him; and he thought of Ethel, though sent by souls—manitos—to try him, yet of herself binishi, having loved him—and of herself loving him yet, perhaps?—though the superior spirits again had drawn her away.
Then, sitting up and banishing such fancies, he thought of her grandfather and Kincheloe and James Quinlan, who was dead, and of the other Cullens. What should he do about them? And about the house on the Rock? Well, nothing just now. He formed no real decision; he merely found himself disinclined to press further at once. He had been proceeding so completely in partnership with Ethel that her with-
