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The young man answered, "I am mourning for my wife. She died some time ago. I am looking for her." "But why should night produce melancholy?" says Nicholas, dreamily. "It is but a reflection of the greater light, after all. What does Richter call it? 'The great shadow and profile of day.' It is our own morbid fancies that make us dread it." "There, don't cry, and you shall have it all your own way," he says, with a sigh. "To-morrow we will decide what is to be done.".
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"She had made up her mind that you would be insupportable, and she couldn't forgive you because you weren't," says that astute young man, with calm conviction. "Don't you be taken in, Mona." "Now you speak sensibly. The sooner you begin to hate me the better." "Yes, you do," says Mona, with a little obstinate shake of her head. "You call us dirty, for one thing." THE BLACKFEET CREATION.
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