That stout Indian Princess displayed suddenly a sense of humor
and a witty shrewdness which seemed abnormal. Her stolid eyes twinkled
under their heavy brows when Nancy explained, tremblingly, how she had
brought the basket back; her mother would not let her buy it on Sunday.
"Me no buy basket Sunday," said the Princess, and she looked loftily
away from the sweet-grass basket shaking in Nancy's shaking hand. She
was not in the least moved by Nancy's horrified, distressed face.
Perhaps something of the ancient cruelty of her race possessed her;
perhaps it was only the contagion of Yankee shrewdness. Nancy dared not
go home with the basket; she went home without it or her fifty cents.
All that afternoon Nancy stayed up in her chamber and wept, while her
best dress was soaking to remove the green stain, if it was Sunday. She
felt as if her heart were broken. She had lost her self-respect, the
sweet-grass basket, and her fifty cents, besides getting a great green
stain on her best dress. Flora tried to comfort her.
"Don't cry," said she. "It's too bad! The Princess is real mean." And
then Nancy sobbed harder.
When her mother was getting supper, her father followed into the pantry.
"I declare I feel sorry for the child," said he. "She's worked real hard
to get that money, and she'ain't ever had so much as Flora. If it wasn't
Sunday I'd go down there this minute, and get back the money or the
basket from those Injuns.
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