For after forty years the
change had come, and Wapi, as he stood at the woman's door, was just
dog,--a white man's dog--again the dog of the Vancouver kennel--the dog
of a white man's world.
He thrust open the door with his nose. He slunk in, so silently that he
was not heard. The cabin was lighted. In a bed lay a white-faced,
hollow-cheeked man--awake. On a low stool at his side sat a woman. The
light of the lamp hanging from above warmed with gold fires the thick and
radiant mass of her hair. She was leaning over the sick man. One slim,
white hand was stroking his face gently, and she was speaking to him in a
voice so sweet and soft that it stirred like wonderful music in Wapi's
warped and beaten soul. And then, with a great sigh, he flopped down, an
abject slave, on the edge of her dress.
With a startled cry the woman turned. For a moment she stared at the
great beast wide-eyed, then there came slowly into her face recognition
and understanding. "Why, it's the dog Blake whipped so terribly," she
gasped. "Peter, it's--it's Wapi!" For the first time Wapi felt the caress
of a woman's hand, soft, gentle, pitying, and out of him there came a
wimpering sound that was almost a sob.
"It's the dog--he whipped," she repeated, and, then, if Wapi could have
understood, he would have noted the tense pallor of her lovely face and
the look of a great fear that was away back in the staring blue depths of
her eyes.
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