"But I don't love you, so what's the use of considering the rest? If I
ever marry any one it will be John DeWitt."

"But couldn't you," insisted the tragically deep voice, "couldn't you
ever love me?"

Rhoda answered wearily. One could not, it seemed, even die in peace!

"I can't think of love or marriage any more. I am a dying woman. Let
me go into the mist, Kut-le, without a pang for our friendship, with
just the pleasant memory of your goodness to me. Surely you cannot
love me as I am!"

"I love you for the wonderful possibilities I see in you. I love you
in spite of your illness. I will make you well before I marry you.
The Indian in me has strength to make you well. And I will cherish you
as white men cherish their wives."

Rhoda raised her hand commandingly and in her voice was that boundless
vanity of the white, which is as old as the race.

"No! No! Don't speak of this again! You are an Indian but one
removed from savagery. I am a white! I couldn't think of marrying
you!" Then her tender heart failed her and her voice trembled. "But
still I am your friend, Kut-le. Truly I am your friend."

The Indian was silent so long that Rhoda was a little frightened. Then
he spoke slowly.