olby. It had helped her. She had
set out to do a thing she dreaded, and it was easier now than it would
have been if they had not met. She had been on her way to the Hut in the
Wood, and now the dread of the visit to Jethro Fawe had diminished. The
last voice she would hear before she entered Jethro Fawe's prison was
that of the man who represented to her, however vaguely, the life which
must be her future--the settled life, the life of Society and not of the
Saracen.

After he had told his boyhood story they sat in silence for a moment
or two, then she rose, and, turning to him, was about to speak. At that
instant there came distinctly through the wood a faint, trilling sound.
Her face paled a little, and the words died upon her lips. Ingolby,
having turned his head as though to listen, did not see the change in
her face, and she quickly regained her self-control.

"I heard that sound before," he said, "and I thought from your look you
heard it, too. It's funny. It is singing, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's singing," she answered.

"Who is it--some of the heathen from the Reservation?"

"Yes, some of the heathen," she answered.

"Has Tekewani got a lodge about here?"

"He had one here in the old days."

"And his people go to it still-was that where you were going when I
broke in on you?"

"Yes, I was going there. I am a heathen, also, you know."

"Well, I'll be a heathen, too, if you'll show me how; if you think I'd
pass for one. I've done a lot of heathen things in my time."

She gave him her hand to say good-bye. "Mayn't I go with you?" he asked.

"'I must finish my journey alone,'" she answered slowly, repeating a
line from the first English book she had ever read.

"That's English enough," he responded with a laugh. "Well, if I mustn't
go with you I mustn't, but my respects to Robinson Crusoe." He slung
the gun into the hollow of his arm. "I'd like much to go with you," he
urged.

"Not to-day," she answered firmly.

Again the voice came through the woods, a little louder now.

"It sounds like a call," he remarked.

"It is a call," she answered--"the call of the heathen."

An instant after she had gone on, with a look half-smiling,
half-forbidding, thrown over her shoulder at him.

"I've a notion to follow her," he said eagerly, and he took a step in
her direction.

Suddenly she turned and came back to him. "Your plans are in
danger--don't forget Felix Marchand," she said, and then turned from him