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THE WHITE *VOMAN IN THE WOOD. I&3

like the face of the women of my own land. Shall we not be friends?"

She looked up wistfully at the handsome and noble countenance above her, so different from the stolid visages she had known so long.

"Yes; you are not Indian."

In that one expression she unconsciously told Cecil how her sensitive nature shrank from the bar barism around her; how the tastes and aspirations she had inherited from her mother reached out for better and higher things.

In a little while they were seated on a grassy bank in the shade of the trees, talking together. She bade him tell her of his people. She listened intently; the bright, beautiful look came back as she heard the tale.

"They are kind to women, instead of making them mere burden-bearers; they have pleasant homes; they dwell in cities? Then they are like my mother s people."

"They are gentle, kind, humane. They have all the arts that light up life and make it beautiful, not like the tribes of this grim, bloodstained land."

"This land!" Her face darkened and she lifted her hand in a quick, repelling gesture. "This land is a grave. The clouds lie black and heavy on the spirit that longs for the sunlight and cannot reach it." She turned to him again. "Go on, your words are music."

He continued, and she listened till the story of his country and his wanderings was done. When he ended, she drew a glad, deep breath; her eyes were sparkling with joy.

"I am content," she said, in a voice in wh