"Dear, listen," he urged. "We must go back."
She pressed her mitten against his lips to prevent further speech. "You love me. Say that you love me."
"I do love you, Labiskwee. You are my wonderful sweetheart."
Again the mitten was a caressing obstacle to utterance.
"We shall go on to the cache," she said with decision. "It is three miles from here. Come."
He held back, and her pull on his arm could not move him. Almost was he tempted to tell her of the other woman beyond the south traverse.
"It would be a great wrong to you to go back," she said. "I--I am only a wild girl, and I am afraid of the world; but I am more afraid for you. You see, it is as you told me. I love you more than anybody else in the world. I love you more than myself. The Indian language is not a good language. Th
