But not even then could the girl be still. Far too full of this
day's revelation and of anticipation of things to come was she to be
silent. The mood of her merely changed. The chatter, heretofore aimless,
ceased. In its place came a definite intent, a motive that prompted a
definite question. She was lying stretched out like a child, her crossed
arms pillowing her head, her eyes looking up into the great unknown,
when she gave it voice. Even when she had done so, she did not alter her
position.
"I wonder," she said, "whether if one has made a mistake, it were better
to go on without acknowledging it, living a lie and dying so, or to
admit it and make another, who is innocent, instead of one's self, pay
the penalty?" She paused for breath after the long sentence. "What do
you think, How?"
In the semi-darkness the man looked at her. Against the lighter sky her
face stood out distinct, clear-cut as a silhouette.
"I do not think it ever right to live a lie, Bess," he answered.
"Not even to keep another, who is innocent, from suffering?"
"No," quickly, "not even to keep another from suffering."
The girl shifted restlessly, repressedly.
"But supposing one's acknowledging the lie and living the truth makes
one, according to the world, bad. Would that make any difference, How?"
The Indian did not stir, merely lay there looking at her with his steady
eyes.
"There are some things one has to decide for one's self," he said.
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