“What would you call it?” asked Rhoda.

“I don’t know.  It would depend on my mood.  I only know that the ache is there.”  His eyes grew somber and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.  “The ache to be there—­free in the desert!  To feel the hot sun in my face as I work the trail!  To sleep with the naked stars in my face!  To be—­ Oh, I can’t make you understand, and I’d rather you understood than any one in the world!  You could understand, if only you were desert-taught.  When you are well and strong—­”

“But why don’t you go back?” interrupted Rhoda.

“Because,” replied Kut-le slowly, “the Indian is dying.  I hope that by living as a white, I may live.  Up till recently I have worked blindly and hopelessly, but now I see light.”

“Do you?” asked Rhoda with interest.  “What have you found?”

“It isn’t mine yet.”  Kut-le looked at the girl exultantly and there was a triumphant note in his voice.  “But it shall be mine!  I will make it mine!  And it is worth the sacrifice of my race.”

A vague look of surprise crossed Rhoda’s face but she spoke calmly: 

“To sacrifice one’s race is a serious thing.  I can’t think of anything that would make that worth while.  Here comes Mr. DeWitt.  It must be dinner time.  John, come up and see a little desert owl at close range.  Kut-le has all the desert at his beck and call!”

Kut-le persuaded Rhoda to change the morning rides, which seemed only to exhaust her, to the shortest of evening strolls.  Nearly always DeWitt accompanied them.  Sometimes they went alone, though John was never very far distant.

One moonlit night Kut-le and Rhoda stood alone at the corral bars.  The whole world was radiant silver moonlight on the desert, on the undulating alfalfa; moonlight filtering through the peach-trees and shimmering on Rhoda’s drooping head as she leaned against the bars in the weary attitude habitual to her.  Kut-le stood before her, erect and strong in his white flannels.  His handsome head was thrown back a little, as was his custom when speaking earnestly.  His arms were folded across his deep chest and he stood so still that Rhoda could see his arms rise and fall with his breath.

“It really is great work!” he was saying eagerly.  “It seems to me that a civil engineer has tremendous opportunities to do really big things.  Some of Kipling’s stories of them are bully.”

“Aren’t they!” answered Rhoda sympathetically.

“There is a big thing in my favor too.  The whites make no discrimination against an Indian in the professions.  In fact every one gives him a boost in passing!”

“Why shouldn’t they?  You have as good a brain and are as attractive as any man of my acquaintance!”

The young man drew a quick breath.

“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course!  Why shouldn’t I?  Isn’t the moonlight uncanny on the desert?”