of desolation. Cummins' wife was to him like a flower suddenly come to
relieve the tantalizing barrenness of a desert; and with the wiles and
ways of civilization he sought to breathe its fragrance.

In the days and weeks that followed, he talked a great deal, when
heated by the warmth of the box stove and by his own thoughts; and
this was because he had not yet measured the hearts of Cummins'
people. And because the woman knew nothing of what was said about the
box stove, she continued in the even course of her pure life, neither
resisting nor encouraging the new-comer, yet ever tempting him with
that sweetness which she gave to all alike.

As yet there was no suspicion in her soul. She accepted the
Englishman's friendship, for he was a stranger among her people. She
did not hear the false note, she saw no step that promised evil. Only
the men at the post heard, and saw, and understood.

Like so many faithful beasts, they were ready to spring, to rend
flesh, to tear life out of him who threatened the desecration of all
that was good and pure and beautiful to them; and yet, dumb in their
devotion and faith, they waited and watched for a sign from the woman.
The blue eyes of Cummins' wife, the words of her gentle lips, the
touch of her hands, had made law at the post. If she smiled upon the
stranger and talked with him, and was pleased with him, that was only
one other law that she had made for them to respect. So they were
quiet, evaded the Englishman as much as possible, and watched--always
watched.

One day something happened. Cummins' wife came into the company's
store; and a quick flush shot into her cheeks, and the glitter of blue