Nadu walked with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her head covered with the old scarf. She was moving as in a dream, heeding nothing about her. Was she coming to visit for the last time the house in which she had passed so many happy days, to look upon the scenes so familiar to her? Was she thinking of the missionary and his wife who would never live there again, the two who had been so kind to her, and who had taught her about the nobler things of life? Was there any feeling of remorse in her heart for the woman she had sent so ruthlessly through the swirling rapids? She reached the door, placed a foot upon the threshold, and lifted her head. As she did so a look of wonder, quickly succeeded by a wild fear, leaped into her eyes. She started back and threw out her arms as if to drive away the scene, while from her lips came a piercing shriek of terror. There before her stood the white woman. It could not be, she was drowned in the rapids, and was this her ghost returned to confront her? The teaching she had received at the Mission House and the years she had spent among white people could not altogether eradicate from Nadu's mind the ingrained superstition of her race. The roaring of the wind, the roll of thunder and the rippling of the stream were to her so many voices of the unseen spirits. Only in times of extreme passion were the voices silent. She heeded nothing then, but rushed madly forward like some impetuous torrent. Only when the violent force had been exhausted did the voices return as before. So on this day her passion of jealousy and hatred was subdued by the sight of her old friend and teacher lying cold in death. And then to be confronted by this spirit, as she thought, of the very one she wished to banish from her mind was most startling. Pain, hardship and even death she would have suffered without a complaint. But this vision of the supernatural, this spirit of the woman she had sent to her death, was more than her sturdy stoicism could endure. Sinking to her knees upon the floor, she buried her face in her hands to blot out that strange sight. And as she knelt there Madeline stepped forward and laid her hand gently upon the bowed woman's shoulder. The touch caused Nadu to shrink back with a gurgling, inarticulate cry.
"Don't be afraid," Madeline said, half surmising the cause of the Indian woman's fear. "I won't hurt you. I forgive you."
Lowering her hands and lifting her head Nadu looked slowly up, while her eyes scanned the white woman's face intently for an instant. Then she reached out fearfully a trembling hand and touched Madeline's dress.
"You not dead?" she gasped. "You not speerit?"
"No, no," came the laughing reply. "Do I seem like a dead person? Get up, and take a good look at me."
Realising how she had been mistaken, Nadu quickly regained her feet, while the old expression of hatred leaped back into her eyes.
"Don't look at me that way!" Madeline cried, laying her hand upon the woman's arm. "Why do you hate me? I have not hurt you. Why do you want to kill me?"
"White woman steal Bill's heart, savvey?" came the quick response.
"Steal Bill's heart!" repeated Madeline. "What do you mean?"