etter and dreamed no more. And now ...
I cannot remember"--she brought her hand in a confused manner to her
forehead--"they are there, somewhere, but I cannot find them,
only ..."

"Only," Canim repeated, holding her.

"Only one thing. But you will laugh at its foolishness, it is so
unreal."

"Nay, Li Wan. Dreams are dreams. They may be memories of other lives
we have lived. I was once a moose. I firmly believe I was once a
moose, what of the things I have seen in dreams, and heard."

Strive as he would to hide it, a growing anxiety was manifest, but Li
Wan, groping after the words with which to paint the picture, took no
heed.

"I see a snow-tramped space among the trees," she began, "and across
the snow the sign of a man where he has dragged himself heavily on
hand and knee. And I see, too, the man in the snow, and it seems I am
very close to him when I look. He is unlike real men, for he has hair
on his face, much hair, and the hair of his face and head is yellow
like the summer coat of the weasel. His eyes are closed, but they open
and search about. They are blue like the sky, and look into mine and
search no more. And his hand moves, slow, as from weakness, and
I feel ..."

"Ay," Canim whispered hoarsely. "You feel--?"

"No! no!" she cried in haste. "I feel nothing. Did I say 'feel'? I did
not mean it. It could not be that I should mean it. I see, and I see
only, and that is all I see--a man in the snow, with eyes like the
sky, and hair like the weasel. I have seen it many times, and always
it is the same--a man in the snow--"

"And do you see yourself?" he asked, leaning forward and regarding her
intently. "Do you ever see yourself and the man in the snow?"

"Why should I see myself? Am I not real?"

His muscles relaxed and he sank back, an exultant satisfaction in his
eyes which he turned from her so that she might not see.

"I will tell you, Li Wan," he spoke decisively; "you were a little
bird in some life before, a little moose-bird, when you saw this
thing, and the memory of it is with you yet. It is not strange. I was
once a moose, and my father's father afterward became a bear--so said
the shaman, and the shaman cannot lie. Thus, on the Trail of the Gods
we pass from life to life, and the gods know only and understand.
Dreams and the shadows of dreams be memories, nothing more, and the
dog, whining asleep in the sun-warmth, doubtless sees and remembers
things gone before. Bash, there, was a w