"I can see it as perfectly as I ever did," she said. "But I eliminate the
squaw; possibly because I didn't see her. And however exquisite the basket
is, she broke the law when she peeled a birch tree. I'll wager she brought
this to Lowry, carefully covered. And I'm not sure but there should have
been a law she broke when she uprooted these orchids. Much as I love them,
I doubt if I can keep them alive, and bring them to bloom next season.
I'll try, but I don't possess flower magic in the highest degree."

She turned the glass, touching it with questioning palm. Was it near the
warmth of bog water? After all, was bog water warm? Next time she was in a
swamp she would plunge her hand deeply in the mosses to feel the exact
temperature to which those roots had been accustomed. Then she spoke
again.

"Yes, I eliminate the squaw," she said. "These golden slippers are the
swamp to me, but I see you kneeling to lift them. I am so glad I'm the
woman they made you see."

Douglas sat forward and opened his lips. Was not this the auspicious
moment?

"Did the squaw bring more?" she questioned.

"Yes," he answered. "Pink moccasins in a basket of red osiers, with the
same moss, rosemary and white tresses. Would you rather those?"

She set down the glass, drawing the basket toward her with both hands. As
she parted the mosses to drop in the water she slowly shook her head.

"One must have seen them to understand what that would be like," she said.