"Perhaps I say nemoweya, but not nemoweya nia," she said.

Dick knew well the distinction between those two "Noes."

"But you will leave out even the nemoweya next time, won't you, Andree?" he asked, and smiled as she sprang up to get the cards in sudden confusion.

His eyes followed her through the little dark room. She really was a beauty; so amazingly full of colour and movement. He had enjoyed painting that little picture of her from memory. He would enjoy much more painting from the model. There certainly was some excuse for Tempest. Then he put Tempest out of his mind. It was hardly the time to find excuses for Tempest on this point.

For ten days Andree worked on the moccasins, silencing Moosta's mild objections by promises that she would buy her more silk blue and purple and magenta silks, and lots of little white beads to go round the edge of everything, some day. Then, one afternoon, she carried them up to the low hill behind Grey Wolf when she went to pick lowbush cranberries, and put the last stitches in them with her dreaming eyes glancing down, now and again, on the ugly little dull village below.

She was more excited about that picture than she had ever been in her life. Like a second Narcissus she loved her own beauty better than she loved anyone else, and the thought that Dick might make some more of those delightful colours and curves which were herself intoxicated her. She filled her bowl, and then she stitched the long tie-thongs into place, and scraps of French songs came and went on her lips. She was utterly happy; forgetful of all but the delicious, excited feeling that held her, and the day had life enough to fit her mood. Swallows were making steely-blue flashes across the warm, golden light where they chased the glancing moths. Butterflies trembled in the tall grass-stalks where the wind went dreamily, and in the scattered balsams vireo and fly-catcher were dipping and calling.

Dick came over the crest of the hill, whistling. He came near; stopped, and looked down. In her yellow gown and the yellow light, with the soft wind in her short curls