at sage spinster's advice with entire attention.

"You think me handsome woman?"

"Very, when you are in a good temper."

"Suppose I can't keep back anger?"

"The next time your eyes see red, make a little prayer. It will always
be answered."

"To Christ?" asked Mrs. Lupo, who had been to a mission school as a
girl.

"Yes, to Christ, who never spoke a harsh word even when He was struck
in the face and spit upon and finally nailed to a cross."

"What shall I say?" asked the other, as interested as a child.

"When you feel the rage coming on, say over and over: 'Oh, Christ, take
my anger from me and make me gentle and kind.'"

Mrs. Lupo repeated the prayer several times.

"And it will come true?" she asked.

"Always, always. Try it and see."

At last the half-breed rose to her feet. The knife stood upright between
them swaying on its blade.

"You forgive?" she asked.

"I forgive."

"I will go away. I am afraid yet when the daughter comes. There is still
hate here," she pointed to her temples. "But it will be gone if I stay
away. When Lupo goes to village he stays long time. It is better for me
not to see him when he comes back. Until I learn, I will not see him no
more. Good-by. I'm thankful to you."

Mrs. Lupo departed, leaving the knife where it had fallen. It was on the
tip of Miss Campbell's tongue to say:

"You must not leave me alone." But she checked herself. She doubted if
she could exert her will another time like that. Already beads of
perspiration stood out on her brows. A feeling of extreme lassitude
crept over her and she slipped back into the hammock with a sensation of
nausea. Then unconsciousness bound her with invisible cords and the
brave little woman fainted dead away.

As Mrs. Lupo turned into the gallery, she glanced back but she only saw
the train of Miss Campbell's white wrapper fluttering from the hammock
in the breeze.

There had been several loud raps downstairs, but to Miss Campbell,
fighting her way slowly back to consciousness, it sounded hundreds of
miles away, like spirit rapping; or perhaps it was the pounding of her
own pulses. A man entered the living room. He was of medium height and
spare with a lean brown face, and he was dressed as men usually dress
for walking trips, in knickerbockers, heavy shoes laced well up the leg,
a gray flannel shirt open at the neck with a brown silk tie. He wore a
pith helmet; on his back was strapped a flat knapsack, and he carried