ry eyes--and by the man she expects--or did
expect to marry--why, you can't wonder at her looking at it the way she
does. It isn't Vadnie's fault. It's the way she's been raised."

"Well," observed Wally in the manner of delivering an ultimatum, "excuse
ME from any Eastern raising!"

A little later, Phoebe boldly invaded the secret chambers of Good
Indian's heart when he was readjusting the rocks which formed the floor
of the milk-house.

"Now, Grant," she began, laying her hand upon his shoulder as he knelt
before her, straining at a heavy rock, "Mother Hart is going to give you
a little piece of her mind about something that's none of her business
maybe."

"You can give me as many pieces as you like. They're always good
medicine," he assured her. But he kept his head bent so that his
hat quite hid his face from her. "What about?" he asked, a betraying
tenseness in his voice.

"About Vadnie--and you. I notice you don't speak--you haven't that I've
seen, since that day--on the porch. You don't want to be too hard on
her, Grant. Remember she isn't used to such things. She looks at it
different. She's never seen the times, as I have, where it's kill or be
killed. Be patient with her, Grant--and don't feel hard. She'll get over
it. I want," she stopped because her voice was beginning to shake "--I
want my biggest boy to be happy." Her hand slipped around his neck and
pressed his head against her knee.

Good Indian got up and put his arms around her and held her close. He
did not say anything at all for a minute, but when he did he spoke very
quietly, stroking her hair the while.

"Mother Hart, I stood on the porch and heard what she said in the
kitchen. She accused me of killing Saunders. She said I liked to kill
people; that I shot at her and laughed at the mark I made on her arm.
She called me a savage--an Indian. My mother's mother was the daughter
of a chief. She was a good woman; my mother was a good woman; just as
good as if she had been white.

"Mother Hart, I'm a white man in everything but half my mother's blood.
I don't remember her--but I respect her memory, and I am not ashamed
because she was my mother. Do you think I could marry a girl who thinks
of my mother as something which she must try to forgive? Do you think
I could go to that girl in there and--and take her in my arms--and love
her, knowing that she feels as she does? She can't even forgive me for
killing that beast!

"She's a beautiful th