"Since Keela was a little, wistful, black-eyed child," said Mic-co at last, "I have been her teacher. We have worked very hard together. Peace came to me through her." He broke off frowning and spoke of the alarming mine of inherited instincts from the white father which his teaching had awakened. Keela had been restless and unhappy, fastidiously aloof with the Seminoles, shy and reticent with white men. He must not make another mistake, he said, for Keela was very dear to him.
"The white father?" asked Carl curiously.
"An artist."
"She has a marvelous gift in modeling," said Carl. "I know a famous young sculptor whose work is nothing like so virile. Might not something utterly new and barbaric come of it with proper direction? If she could interpret this wild life of the Glades from an Indian viewpoint—"
"I have frequently thought of it," agreed Mic-co. "You would help her, Carl?"
"Yes."
"It would give a definite and unselfish direction to your own life, would it not, like those weeks at the farm with Wherry?"
"Yes. You trust me, Mic-co?"
"Utterly."
Carl held out his hand.