from her blanket at the girl who knelt there as
at the feet of a confessor. But the girl did not see her; she still knelt
there, almost whispering now.

"And the worst of it is, Joe, after they are dead--the ones you hate--then
the devil in you commences to torment you by making you think of some good
points among the bad ones; some little kind word that would have made the
hate in your heart less if it had not been for your own terrible
wickedness. And it gnaws and torments you just like a rat gnawing the
heart out of a log for a nest. And hate is terrible! whether it is live
hate, or dead, it is terrible. Maybe I won't feel so bad now that I've
said out loud to some one how I feel--how much harder my heart is than it
ought to be. I couldn't tell any one else. But you hate, too, you know.
Maybe you know, too, that dead hate hurts worst--that it haunts like a
ghost."

She looked up at him, and saw again that queer, wise smile about his
lips.

"You don't believe he's dead!" she said, and her face grew paler. "You
think he's still alive, and that is why you don't want folks to use your
old name. You are laying for him yet, and you so helpless you can't
move!"

The man only looked at her grimly. He would not deny; he would not
assent.

"But you are wrong," she persisted. "He is dead. The Indians told me
so--Akkomi told me so. Would they lie to me? Joe, can't you let the hate
go by, now that he is dead--dead?"

But no motion answered her, though his eyes rested on her kindly enough.
Then the squaw arose and slouched away to pick up firewood in the forest,
and the girl arose, too, and touched his hand.

"Well, whether you can or not, I am glad I told you what I did. Maybe it
won't worry me so much now; for sometimes, just when I'm almost happy, the
ghost of that bad hate seems to whisper, whisper, and there ain't any more
good times for me. I'm glad I told you. I would not have, though, if you
could talk like other folks, but you can't."

She got him a drink of water, slipped their first find of the gold into
his pocket, and then stood at the tent door, watching for Overton.

But he did not come, and after a little she picked up the pan again and
started for the small stream where she had left him.

The man in the chair watched her go, and when she was out of sight, that
right hand was again slowly raised from the chair.

"C--an't I?" he whispered, in a strange, indistinct way. "Poor lit--tle
girl! poor little