Indian. I've
always dreamed and fancied I was different, and I am, in my soul--I
know I am! The white is so strong in me that it has killed the red, and
I'm one of father's people. I'm not like the other two; they are brown
and silent, and as cold as little toads; but I'm white and full of
life, all over. They never see the men and women that I see in my
dreams. They never have my visions of the beautiful snow-white mother,
with the tender mouth and the sad eyes that always smile at me."

"You have visions of such things, eh?"

"Yes, but I came a generation late, that's all, and I've got that other
woman's soul. I'm not a half-breed--I'm not me at all. I'm
Merridy--Merridy! That's who I am."

Her face was turned away from him, so that she did not notice the
frightful effect her words had upon Stark.

"Where did you get--that name?" His voice was pitched in a different
key now. Then, after a moment, he added, "From the story I told you at
the mine that night, I suppose?"

"Oh no," she answered. "I've always had it, though they call me Necia.
Merridy was my father's mother. I guess I'm like her in many ways, for
I often imagine she is a part of me, that her spirit is mine. It's the
only way I can account for the sights I see."

"Your father's mother?" he said, mechanically. "That's queer." He
seemed to be trying to shake himself free from something. "It's
heredity, I suppose. You have visions of a white woman, a woman named
Merridy, eh?" Suddenly his manner changed, and he spoke so roughly that
she looked at him in vague alarm.

"How do you know? How do you know she was his mother?"

"He told me so--"

Stark snarled. "He lied!"

"I can show you her wedding-ring--I've always worn it." She fumbled for
the chain about her neck, but it eluded her trembling fingers. "It has
her name in it--'From Dan to Merridy.'"

Stark's hand darted forward and tore the thing from her shoulders, then
he thrust it under the lamp and glared at the inscription, while his
fingers shook so that he could barely distinguish the words. His eyes
were blazing and his face livid.

Necia cried out, but he dropped the ornament and seized her fiercely,
lifting her from the chair to her feet; then, with one swift, downward
clutch, he laid hold of her dress at the left shoulder and ripped it
half to her waist. A hoarse sound came from his throat, a cry half of
amazement, half of triumph.

"Let me go! Let me go!" She struggled to free hersel