"Well, I hope everything is clear," said the lawyer astutely. "It seems that you have come into something, madam, and I trust it will prove of value." She mumbled something in reply, and stood gazing at the two pictures she now held. All that had been so strange to her in life was at last clear. She understood the changing color of her eyes, and her father's statements that he had never quite explained. At last she knew who she was.

She turned to find herself alone. She opened her lips and started to call the others, and then hesitated. Why had they left her? She looked at the photographs she held—and understood.

She gathered the documents and placed them in the box, went upstairs, slowly packed her belongings, and called a cab.

Jean Baptiste came into the granary on the old claim, and looked out over the place. And as he did so, he regarded the spot where the sod house had once stood and wherein he had spent many happy days. As he thought of it, the past rose before him, and he lived through the sweetness again that a harvest had once brought him. That was years before, and in that moment he wished he could bring it back again. The Custom of the Country and its law had forbid, and he had paid the penalty. He wondered whether he would do the same again and sacrifice all that had been dear and risk the misery that had followed.

He shifted, and in so doing his back was toward the road. "Withal, it would have been awkward to have married a white woman," he muttered, and reached for the cold lunch he had brought for his meal. Bill and George were eating in the field where they worked.

"Baching is hell," he muttered aloud, and picked up a sandwich.

"How very bad you are, Jean," he heard, and almost strained his neck in turning so quickly.

"Agnes!"

"Well, why not?"

"But—but—oh, tell me," and then he became silent and looked away, raising the sandwich to his mouth mechanically.

"Don't eat the cold lunch, Jean. I have brought some that is warm," so saying she uncovered the basket she carried, and he regarded it eagerly.

"But, Agnes, how came you here? I—I—thought you—were getting married. Are you here on—on your wedding trip?"

"Oh, Lord, no! No, Jean, I am not going to marry."

"Not going to marry!"

She shook her head and affected to be sad, but a little smile played around her lips that he saw but didn't understand.

"But—Agnes, why?"

"Because the one to whom I was engaged—well, he wouldn't marry me," and she laughed.

"I wish you would make it all clear. At least tell me what it means—that it is so."

"It is so!" she said stoutly, and he believed her when he saw her eyes.

"Well, I guess I'll understand by and by."