, and couldn't hope for more, you
wouldn't waste it looking for gold while he was above ground. Now, ain't I
about right?"

He gave no assent, but smiled in a more kindly way at the shrewdness of
her guess.

"You won't own up, but I know I am right," she said; "and the way I know
it is because I think I'd feel just like that myself if some one hurt me
bad. I wonder if girls often feel that way. I guess not. I know Ora
Harrison, the doctor's girl, don't. She says her prayers every night, and
asks God to let her enemies have good luck. U'm! I can't do that."

The man watched her as she sat silent for a little, looking out into the
still, warm sunshine. The squaw slumbered on, and the girl stared across
her, and her face grew sad and moody with some hard thought.

"It's awful to hate," she said, at last. "Don't you think it is?--to hate
so that you can't breathe right when the person you hate comes near where
you are--to be able to _feel_ if he comes near, even when you don't see or
hear him, to feel a devil that rises up in your breast and makes you want
to get a knife and cut--cut deep, until the blood you hate runs away from
the face you hate, and leaves it white and cold. Ah! it's bad, I reckon,
to have some one hate you; but it's a thousand times worse to hate back.
It makes the prettiest day black when the devil tells you of the hate you
must remember, and you can't pray it away, and you can't forget it, and
you can't help it! Oh, dear!"

She put her hands over her eyes and leaned her head against his hand. He
felt her tears, but could not comfort her.

"You see, I know--how you felt," she said, trying to speak steadily.
"Girls shouldn't know; girls should have love and good thoughts taught to
them. I--I've dreamed dreams of what a girl's life ought to be like;
something like Ora's home, where her mother kisses her and loves her, and
her father kisses and loves them both. I went to their home once, and I
never could go again. I was starving for the kind of home she has, and I
knew I never would get it. That is the hardest part of it--to know, no
matter how hard you try to be good, all your life, you can't get back the
good thoughts and the love that should have been yours when you were
little--the good thoughts that would have kept hate from growing in your
heart, until it is stronger than you are. Oh, it's awful!"

The squaw, who did not understand English, but did understand tears,
rolled over and peered out