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"Aw-lip-ka-shaw!" she said shyly, her black eyes very soft and sorrowful. "It is a prettier parting than the white man's. By and by, Diane, you will write to the lodge of Mic-co? The Indian lads ride in each moon to the village for Mic-co's books and papers." Her great eyes searched Diane's face a little wistfully. "Sometime," she added shyly, "when you wish, I will come again.
"I may not read more," she said, bending to the pottery with wild color in her face. "I I am very tired, Carl. You go in the morning?" "Yes." "You are strong and sure?" "Yes. Quite. I've promised Mic-co not to lose my grip again." "And sometime you will come here again?" "Often!" When the evening star flashed silver in the lilied pool, Carl sat alone.
It was all he could trust himself to say. It was a singular greeting, Mic-co thought, and very eloquent. 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.
Through a dizzy blur which distorted every object and which frowningly he sought to drive away with clenched hands, he stared at the lodge, stared at Keela, stared at the grave and quiet face of Mic-co. He was still staring vaguely about him when night curtained the lilied pool and the stars flashed brightly overhead. "I am not ill, Tregar!" he insisted curtly. "Let me rest by the pool.
There was a keen, quick brain behind the dark and lovely eyes, a faultless knowledge of the courtesies of finer folk. Mic-co had wrought generously and well. Only the girl's inordinate shyness and the stern traditions of her tribe, Diane fancied, kept her chained to her life in the Glades.
"Once." Carl spoke of Wherry. "They were weeks of genuine hardship, those weeks at the farm, but it's singular how frequently my mind goes back to them." "Ah!" said Mic-co with glowing eyes, "there is no salvation like work for the happiness of another. That I know." So the quiet days filed by until Mic-co turned at last from the healing of the mind to the healing of the body.
I made myself proficient in the English tongue that those traders and hunters and naturalists who stray here might guess nothing of my origin. I shall never again leave the peace and quiet of this island home. And you and I, Tregar, must quiet that Voice forever!" "Is that possible?" choked Tregar. "I think so," said Mic-co.
Through rude avenues of palm and pine and cypress, through groves of wild orange and banana fringed with mulberry and persimmon trees, over rustic bridges which led from island to island, they came at last to a larger hummock and the wild, vine-covered log lodge of Mic-co, the Indians' white friend. It was thatched like the Seminole wigwams in palmetto and set in a cluster of giant trees.
"It is a habit of mine," hinted Mic-co, "to take what confidence a man may offer and let him withhold what he will." "There is nothing to withhold!" flashed Ronador with sudden fierceness. "Why do you speak of it?"
You mean your daughter?" "I have no child," said Theodomir. "The girl you saw to-night is my foster daughter, the child of my wife and the man for whose whim she begged me to divorce her." "No child!" exclaimed the Baron with a sickening flash of realization. "My poor Ronador!" "My kindness to her," said Mic-co, "was at first a discipline.
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