storm, and beat their tempests against the Sea Cliff, but the Sea Cliff stands silent and stern and unmoved. And Killamah is the dancing waterfall, which dashes over the cold rock and makes it beautiful—beautiful. "The Great Whiteness melted, and went back to the river and to the sea. And when the summer came, and the violets grew in front of the cabin, the Sea Wind was borne to us. Softly, gently, she came, and Sea Cliff and Killamah were happy."
The girl had raised her head and was sitting upright, her face turned toward the evening sky. A long shaft of amber twilight fell full on her face, on the low broad forehead and the eyes with their dark lashes; on the beautifully moulded chin and the curved lips, which could express the depths and heights of her passion. The night wind blew the short skirt in graceful folds about the lithe, young limbs. The buckskin mackinaw, the bared feet and ankles, the long coil of dark hair, stamped themselves indelibly upon my memory. At last she turned her face away. The tears which she could not shed were in her voice.
"Margaret Hill—the great fire came again, and burned the cabin and the forest—and—Sea Cliff'."
"Yes, Killamah."
"I cannot go—go on."
"And Sea Cliff died?"
"No."
"Did—did he go away, little one?"
"No." I could scarcely hear the faint whisper. At last: "He—he worked in the mill, and a—a log fell on him. They sent him away from me—to the hospital—you call it. A moon ago, and he has not come back. The Sea Wind dies, and Sea Cliff is alone—alone. Killamah cannot go to him— she knows not where—she has no money. It may be that Sea Cliff has weakened and fallen, and the Sea rages over him. Killamah does not know.' There was a long, long silence. The twilight deepened. The girl at my side did not move.
Then suddenly she jumped to her feet—her chin uplifted, her eyes strained towards the bay. There was a faint sound which suggested the rhythm of a paddle—a quick step sounded on the shore.
A tall, dark youth, with flashing eyes and quivering lips, thrust me aside and strained the girl to his heart—"Killamah—Opitsah."
The sweetest word in all the Chinook is "Opitsah"—sweetheart.
I strolled oft' toward the bay and bowed my head. The starlit water, the sweet incense of the firs, the wind, the magic of the night had never failed before, but I could not raise my head.
And, finally, when I went back through the trees Killamah and Sea Cliff still sat on the doorstep.
"And did the little one think Sea Cliff would not come back? But he is here, Killamah. The Sea Cliff did not fall though the Sea beat against it—and the Sea Wind, opitsah, will come back to us, as she came before, Killamah."
