again called him by name. That she was laboring under a new and
unusual emotion impressed him immediately. He could see that she
was fighting to restrain an impulse to pour out in words what
would have been meaningless to him, and that she was telling him
the bits of paper were to take the place of voice. For one swift
moment as he advanced to the table the papers meant less to him
than the fact that she had twice spoken his name. Her soft lips
seemed to whisper it again as she pointed, and the look in her
eyes and the poise of her body recalled to him vividly the picture
of her as he had first seen her in the cabin. He looked at the
bits of paper. There were fifteen or twenty pieces, and on each
was sketched a picture.

He heard a low catch in Celie's breath as he bent over them, and
his own pulse quickened. A glance was sufficient to show him that
with the pictures Celie was trying to tell him what he wanted to
know. They told her own story--who she was, why she was at Bram
Johnson's cabin, and how she had come. This, at least, was the
first thought that impressed him. He observed then that the bits
of paper were soiled and worn as though they had been handled a
great deal. He made no effort to restrain the exclamation that
followed this discovery.

"You drew these pictures for Bram," he scanning them more
carefully. "That settles one thing. Bram doesn't know much more
about you than, I do. Ships, and dogs, and men--and fighting--a
lot of fighting--and--"

His eyes stopped at one of the pictures and his heart gave a
sudden excited thump. He picked up the bit of paper which had