body and brain of his guest to the
strength and endurance of an Indian; but the quiet hours by the pool
brought with them the subtler healing.

Carl grew browner and sturdier day by day. His eyes were quieter.
There was less of arrogance too in the sensitive mouth and less of
careless assertiveness in his manner.

So matters stood when Philip rode in by the southern trail with Sho-caw.

Now Philip had wisely waited for the inevitable readjustment, trusting
entirely to Mic-co, but with the memory of Carl's haggard face and
haunted eyes, he was unprepared for the lean, tanned, wholly vigorous
young man who sprang to meet him.

"Well!" said Philip. "Well!"

He was shaken a little and cleared his throat, at a loss for words.

"You--you infernal dub!" said Carl. It was all he could trust himself
to say.

It was a singular greeting, Mic-co thought, and very eloquent.

CHAPTER XLII

THE RAIN UPON THE WIGWAM

To the heart of the gypsy there is a kindred voice in the cheerful
crackle of a camp fire--in the wind that rustles tree and grass--in the
song of a bird or the hum of bees--in the lap of a lake or the
brilliant trail of a shooting star.

A winter forest of tracking snow is rife with messages of furry folk
who prowl by night. Moon-checkered trees fling wavering banners of
gypsy hieroglyphics upon the ground. Sun and moon and cloud and the
fiery color-pot of the firmament write their symbols upon the horizon
for gypsy eyes to read.

What wonder then that the milky clouds which piled fantastically above
the Indian camp fashioned hazily at times into curious boats sailing
away to another land? What wonder if the dawn was streaked with
imperial purple? What wonder if Diane built faces and fancies in the
ember-glow of the Seminole fire-wheel? What wonder if like the
pine-wood sparrow and the wind of Okeechobee the voice of the woodland
always questioned? Conscience, soul-argument--what you will--there
were voices in the wild which stirred the girl's heart to introspection.

So it was with the rain which, at the dark of the moon, pattered gently
on the palmetto roof of her wigwam.

"And now," said the rain with a soft gust of flying drops, "now there
is Sho-caw!"

"Yes," said Diane with a sigh, "there is Sho-caw. I am very sorry."

"But," warned the rain, "one must not forget. At Keela's teaching you
have fallen into the soft, musical tongue of these Indian folk with
marvelous ease. And you