“It is a wild world of varied color and activity,” she wrote to Ann.  “The trailing air plants in the trees beside my wigwam weave a dense, tropical jungle of shadow shot with sunlight.  Keela’s wigwam lies but a stone’s throw beyond.  It is lined with beaded trinkets, curious carven things of cypress, pots of dye made of berries and barks, and pottery which she has patterned after the relics in the sand mounds.  There is an old chief with all the terrible pathos of a vanishing race in his eyes.  I find in his wistful dignity an element of tragedy.  He is very kind to Keela and talks much of her in his quaint broken English.

“Moons back, he declares, when E-shock-e-tom-isee, the great Creator, made the world of men by scattering seeds in a river valley, of those who grew from the sand, some went to the river and washed too pale and weak—­the white man; some, enough—­the strong red man; some washed not at all—­the shiftless black man.  But Keela came from none of these.

“Ann, the squaws are hideous!  Their clothes, an indescribable potpourri of savage superstition and stray inklings (such as a disfiguring bang of hair across the forehead, a Psyche knot and a full skirt) from the white man’s world of fashion—­years back.  The pounds and pounds of bead necklaces they wear give the savage touch.  I don’t wonder Keela’s delicate soul rebelled and drove her to the barbaric costume of a chief.  It is infinitely more picturesque and beautiful.

“There are thrilling camp fire tales of Osceola, the brilliant, handsome young Seminole chief who blazoned his name over the pages of Florida history, but here among Osceola’s kinsmen, pages are unnecessary.  The sagas of the tribe are handed down from mouth to mouth to stir the youth to deeds of daring.  Keela, like Osceola, had a white father and a Seminole mother.  Ann, I sometimes wonder what opportunity might have done for Osceola.  As great as Napoleon, some one said.  What might opportunity do for this strange, exotic flower of Osceola’s people?  She has brains and beauty and instinctive grace enough to startle a continent.  I am greatly tempted.  Ann, I beg of you, don’t breathe any of this to Aunt Agatha.  Some day I may carry Keela away to the cities of the North for an experiment quite my own.  Her delicate beauty—­her gravity—­her shy, sweet dignity, hold me powerfully.  It would make life well worth the living—­the regeneration of a life like hers.

“No, I am not mad.  If I am, it is a delicious madness indeed, this craving to do something for some one else.  I need the discipline of thinking for another.

“I don’t know when you will get this.  Once in a while an Indian rides forth to civilization, and this letter will perforce await such a messenger.  I wrote to Aunt Agatha from the little hamlet where Johnny is waiting with the van.  I know she is fussing.

“You wrote me something in one of your letters, that Dick and Carl were planning to camp and hunt wild turkeys in the Glades.  Let me know what luck they had and all the news.