Weyman could count her ribs.
"She die," Henri told him on the seventh night.

"She starve before she eat in that cage.

She want the forest, the wild kill, the fresh blood.
She two--t'ree year old--too old to make civilize." Henri went to bed at the usual hour, but Weyman was troubled, and sat up late.

He wrote a long letter to the sweet-faced girl at North Battleford, and then he turned out the light, and painted visions of her in the red glow of the fire.

He saw her again for that first time when he camped in the little shack where the fifth city of Saskatchewan now stood--with her blue eyes, the big shining braid, and the fresh glow of the prairies in her cheeks.