"And--I told him I guessed it wasn't wrong, because I liked him,
and nobody else had ever kissed me, and--Peter--he didn't kiss me!
And when he went away he looked so queer--so white-like--and
somethin' inside me has been singing ever since. I don't know what
it is, Peter. But it's there!"

And then, after a moment.

"Peter," she whispered, "I wish Mister Jolly Roger would take us
away!"

The thought drew a tightening to her lips, and the pucker of a
frown between her eyes, and she sat Peter down beside her and
looked over the valley to the black forest, in the heart of which
was Jolly Roger's cabin.

"It's funny he don't want anybody to know he's there, ain't it--I
mean--isn't it, Peter?" she mused. "He's livin' in the old shack
Indian Tom died in last winter, and I've promised not to tell. He
says it's a great secret, and that only you, and I, and the
Missioner over at Sucker Creek know anything about it. I'd like to
go over and clean up the shack for him. I sure would."

Peter, beginning to nose among the rocks, did not see the flash of
fire that came slowly into the blue of the girl's eyes. She was
looking at her ragged shoes, at the patched stockings, at the
poverty of her faded dress, and her fingers clenched in her lap.

"I'd do it--I'd go away--somewhere--and never come back, if it