care," she repeated, "I don't care!"
She was a head shorter than Elise as she stood there, her handsome features distorted with passion. Noting the latter's curious glance she instinctively drew her shawl closer, then with an angry gesture flung it aside.
"There!" she cried fiercely, "I don't care; everybody knows."
But Elise did not understand. The meaning of the speech was lost upon her unsophisticated ears. She only saw that the girl was unhappy, and her own disappointment inclined her to sympathy.
"I am sorry people are unkind to you," she murmured softly. "Will you not come Home with me? I will be your friend."
The girl eyed her suspiciously. "Friend!" she exclaimed, with bitter scorn, "friends don't count when you're in trouble. I ain't got any friends, and I don't want any; they treat you like a dog when—when your trouble comes."
But Elise was not to be put off by rudeness. The dark wild beauty of this girl's face attracted her, and she could not bear the sight of pain. She caught the fringe of the gay shawl as its wearer turned away.
"Tell me where you are from. Do you belong to the river?"
"No."
"You live—"
"Up there." She motioned toward the Point and Elise remembered that just around the bend there was an old cabin, long deserted, but for the last few months, occupied by a white man with an Indian wife and several half-breed children. The man was employed "by the company to provide wood for the cannery and the woman was given odd bits of work now and then by the feminine portion of the growing community.
"Will you come here tomorrow?"
"What for?"
"I wish it." The blue eyes looked steadily into the dark ones; there was a compelling force in their depths. Slowly the anger faded from the black orbs and they drooped wearily till the long lashes rested upon the brown cheek.
"You will come." It was not a question this time, but a command.
"Yes."
"Good-by then, and remember that I am your friend." The two girls, both children of Nature, yet opposite as the poles, went their separate ways. In that brief meeting a long chain of circumstances was set in motion that was destined to influence the life of each in ways it was not then possible to foresee or even to dream of.
(To be continued.)
Life's Elegy.
I've wandered far o'er land and sea,
I've seen the lighted festal hall,
And heard the wail of misery
Above the flaunting prompter's call.
Upon the dark and silent street,
Except the sound of quickened tread,
Or ruthless whir of driven sleet
There comes the cry — "Oh give me bread!'
Who has not heard the robin sing,
The burden of a matin lay? —
Yet it has felt the talon's sting
Before the song has died away.
Why softly treads the timid deer,
To startle at the rustling leaf?
Why should with darkness, waken fear,
And morning bring so often grief?
The tiny motes within the air,
The monarchs of the sea and plain,
Live only to a life ensnare,
Strive only to give pain for pain.
"And is it so with man?" I ask,
Once more retrace the lighted hall;
Upon the street, a sullen mask
Is penury — the sleet, a pall.
"Of thee, world, why is it thus?"
I ask, "Will this forever be?
Must life be ever ravenous,
And ever man know misery?"
Thy answer is: — "We little know
The workings of an endless time;
Man's days may be for weal or woe;
His portion, dreary heights to climb.
Within a book of endless leaves,
Is life the turning of a page,
And happy he who well believes
A fairer lot his heritage."
