"To-morrow we will make her one of those things with wheels--like the
baby-wagons they have in the South," he said. "She must not go in the
papoose-slings!"

"An' I will teach her ze museek," whispered Jan, his eyes glowing.
"That ees ceevilize!"

Suddenly an eager light came into Cummins' face, and he pointed to a
calico-covered box standing upon end in a corner of the room.

"There are the books--HER books, Jan," he said softly, the trembling
thrill of inspiration in his voice. He limped across the room, dropped
upon his knees before the box, and drew back the curtain. Jan knelt
beside him. "They were HER books," he repeated. There was a sobbing
catch in his throat, and his head fell a little upon his breast. "Now
--we will give them--to Melisse."

He drew the books out, one by one, his fingers trembling and his
breath coming quickly as he touched them--a dozen worn, dusty things,
holding within them more than John Cummins would ever know of the
woman he had lost. These volumes of dead voices had come with her into
the wilderness from that other world she had known. They breathed the
pathos of her love from out of their ragged pages, mended in a hundred
places to keep them from falling into utter ruin. Slowly the man
gathered them against his breast, and held them there silently, as he
might have held the woman, fighting hard to keep back his grief.

Jan thrust a hand deeper into the box, and brought forth something
else--a few magazines and papers, as ragged and worn as the books. In