Her black hair was in a loose knot on her back, she
wore a curious skull-cap of black cloth embroidered with beads, a short
cloth skirt, a pair of old trousers tucked into leather socks, a small
blanket with striped ends folded cunningly over her shoulders, and on
her breast a gold cross about twice as large as the one concealed
beneath the Irish boy's shirt. And I looked at her with a curious
feeling that my dreams were coming true. Dark--high-cheeked--a
blanket--and (unless the eyes with which I gazed almost reverentially at
the dirty leather socks deceived me) moccasins--she was, she must be, a
_squaw_!
Probably Dennis had come to the same conclusion, when, waving the
tabby-coloured _arums_ he said, "I'll ask her what these are," and gaily
advanced to carry out his purpose.
"Ye're daft," said Alister, getting red.
"It's a North American Indian!" said I.
"It's a woman, anyhow!" retorted Dennis over his shoulder, with a
twinkle of his eyelashes that drew from Alister in his broadest accent,
"The lad's a pairrfect libberrteen!" an expression which he afterwards
retracted and apologized for at considerable length.
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