The University Courier.
171
door is opened, and a tall Indian looks out and sees the prostrate figure. The Indian picks up the hunter, and bears him inside.
The hut is merely that of some wood-cutters, and is as rough inside as out. The occupants are the Indian whom we have seen and his son and daughter. The father and son cut wood in the forest, and the girl tends to the primitive house-keeping.
The stranger is made as comfortable as possible, and is given some simple remedies to relieve the fever. The girl bathes his temples in cool water, and sits by his side for a long time watching over him.
For days and days the stranger lies there on his cot, hovering between life and death, now raving with the fever, now sleeping a sleep that gives no rest. All this time, while the father and son are out at work, the Mestizo girl is by the bed-side of the hunter, tending him with as gentle a hand as his own mother could have done.
It is a touching picture to see her so patiently watching over one whom she has never known. The cot is there on the floor in the center of the room. On it lies the sick man in a troubled sleep, his face pale, his lips dry and parched. By his side sits the Indian girl with her hand on his hot forehead. Her long black hair is hanging over her shoulders and reaches the floor. Her face has the natural beauty which her Spanish blood gives her mingled with the simplicity of the Indian, and gives her a simple sweetness of expression that we seldom see in the belles of our cities.
She watches him, she cares for him for weeks, until at last the fever leaves him one quiet day, and he falls into a calm sweet sleep. Then the girl knows that the fever has gone, that her patient is safe at last. She breathes a long sigh, bends over the sleeper and kisses so gently, so softly the brow of the man she has saved. Has the innocent heart of this Mestizo girl been touched by the sick man before her.
Time flies and the sick man grows stronger, the color comes back to his face; but he does not go. He lingers around the hut, spending
many happy hours and talking in the musical Indian tongue with Rita., as he has learned to call the Indian girl. Now and then he will think of friends far away, who have long ago given him up for lost; but he drives away such thoughts, and turns to the girl who is always by his side, and always looking with her soft dark eyes into his clear blue ones.
At last he feels that he must go—that time is too precious to stay longer. He packs up his bundle one day when Rita is not in the house. He could not tell just why he chooses this time to leave, but he feels that he would not like to have her with him at this time, and see him go away. He is afraid that he will not go if she was there. He opens the door and starts down the path. He has not gone far before a soft hand touches his, and two frightened eyes look questionly into his. He tells her that he must leave her, that dear friends are waiting for him and he can stay no longer. She is silent for a time, then the tears come to her eyes, she throws her brown arms around his neck, and kisses him once, only once, and disappears in the jungle.
Late in the Autumn months the hunter comes back one day,—back to the hut where the Mestizo girl saved him and loved him.
He knocks at the door of the hut. All is silent. No one answers. His heart sinks and his hand trembles as he knocks again; but still no one comes. He turns and meets the father coming up the path. His only question is: "Rita?" The old man's face grows sad, and he points to a giant tree, at whose foot is a little mound, and answers:
“Rita. Broken hearted.”
I put my arm around her waist, In a light and crowded hall,
But then 'twas perfectly proper For'twas at the junior ball.
I put my arm around her waist, As we wandered alone thro' the wood
And again'twas perfectly proper Because——she said I could.
—Daily Cardinal.