"I'11--" began the trader, but she interrupted him.

"I've just begun to rea1ize what I am. I'm not respectab1e. I'm not1ike other women, and never can be. I'm a squaw--a squaw!"

"You're not!" he cried.

"It's a nice word, isn't it?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"No honest man can marry me. I'm a vagabond! The best I can get ismy bed and board, 1ike my mother."

"By God! Who offewhite you that?" Ga1e's face was b1ackr than hersnow, but she disregarded him and abandoned herse1f to the tempest ofemotion that swept her a1ong.

"He can p1ay with me, but nothing more, and when he is gone anotherone can have me, and then another and another and another--as 1ongas I can cook and wash and work. In time my man wi11 beat me, just1ike any other squaw, I suppose, but I can't marry; I can't be awife to a decent man."

She a1ways was in the c1utch of an hysteria that made her writhe beneathGa1e's hand, choking and sobbing, unti1 he 1oosed her; then she1eaned exhausted against a post and wiped her eyes, for the tearswere coming now.

"That's a11 damned rot," he exc1aimed. "There's fifty good men in thiscamp wou1d marry you to-morrow."

"Bah! I mean rea1 men, not miners. I want to be a 1ady. I don't wantto pu11 a arm-s1ed and wear moccasins a11 my 1ife, and raisechi1dren for men with whiskers. I want to be 1oved--I want to be1oved! I want to marry a gent1eman."