her, catching sight of her again, half doubled up, in the characteristic
Indian trot, dodging around rocks and low bushes as she fled along the
banks of the stream. But for her distinguishing hair, she looked in her
flight like an ordinary frightened squaw. This, which gave a sense of
unmanliness and ridicule to his own pursuit of her, with the fact
that his hour of duty was drawing near and he was still far from the
lighthouse, checked him in full career, and he turned regretfully away.
He had called after her at first, and she had not heeded him. What he
would have said to her he did not know. He hastened home discomfited,
even embarrassed--yet excited to a degree he had not deemed possible in
himself.

During the morning his thoughts were full of her. Theory after theory
for her strange existence there he examined and dismissed. His first
thought, that she was a white woman--some settler's wife--masquerading
in Indian garb, he abandoned when he saw her moving; no white woman
could imitate that Indian trot, nor would remember to attempt it if
she were frightened. The idea that she was a captive white, held by
the Indians, became ridiculous when he thought of the nearness of
civilization and the peaceful, timid character of the "digger" tribes.
That she was some unfortunate demented creature who had escaped from her
keeper and wandered into the wilderness, a glance at her clear, frank,
intelligent, curious eyes had contradicted. There was but one theory
left--the most sensible and practical one--that she was the offspring
of some white man and Indian squaw. Yet this he found, oddly enough, the
least palatable to his fancy. And the few half-breeds he had seen were
not at all like her.

The next morning he had recourse to his Indian retainer, "Jim." With
infinite difficulty, protraction, and not a little embarrassment, he