She cared very little what she wore, so long as she went
somewhere. Flora always had nicer things, but she never minded. Flora
was her cousin; she had come to live with her when her mother died, ten
years before, and her father had considerable money. He lived in the
city.
The two girls were nearly the same age, but Nancy was much the larger;
she looked clumsy and overgrown following slender little Flora. It was
like a dandelion in the wake of a violet. After they had reached the
foot of the hill, they crossed some low meadow-land. It was quite wet,
little dark pools glimmered between the clumps of rank grasses. Some
fine pink orchid flowers were very thick, but they did not stop to pick
any. They were going to see the Indians. Their eyes were fixed upon some
white tents ahead. They had been there once before with Nancy's father,
but the same sensations of curiosity and exhilarating fear were upon
them now.
"Nancy," whispered Flora, fearfully.
"What say?"
"_Is_ that a--tomahawk in that tent door?"
"No; it's a hoe," returned Nancy, peering with anxious eyes.
Several Indian women and children were moving about; one Indian man was
scraping some birch bark at a tent door. They did not pay any attention
to the visitors.
Flora nudged Nancy. "Go along," said she.
"No, you," returned Nancy, pushing Flora.
"I don't dare to."
They stood hesitating. Finally Nancy gave her head a jerk.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172