I looked into the shrivelled, but 

 otherwise normal, face of the Indian 

 woman. What had been her life, her 

 heart history, now as completely gone 

 as though it had never been — thirty 

 years of life struggle in snow and sun, 

 with, perhaps, a little joy, and then 

 what? 



Seven brass rings were on her thumb 

 and a carved wooden armlet encircled 

 the wrist. These I was vandal enough 

 to accept from Burfield. There were 

 more rings and armlets, but enough is 

 enough. As the gew-gaws had a pecu- 

 liar, gaseous, left-over smell, I wrapped 

 them in my gloves, and surely if trifles 

 determine destiny, that act was one of 

 the trifles that determined the fact that 

 I was to be spared to this life for yet a 

 while longer. For, as I was carelessly 

 wrapping up my spoil, with a nose very 



