Just then Cicely, who was facing away from the others, caught Nancy’s arm. “Look there!” she whispered pointing towards the woods behind them.
Out of the shadow was creeping the strangest figure. A bent old woman with a shawl drawn over her head and shoulders was approaching cautiously. Her grey hair escaped in elf-locks, her cheeks were wrinkled like the sand at low tide. She looked like a witch. On her back was a great bundle of grass and reeds, tied with a rope. In her hand was a canoe paddle. Around her neck dangled a chain of shells and beads. She wore moccasins on her feet. She came toward the fire with a grim, sulky look on her face, and her little sunken eyes glanced from figure to figure warily. Eddie and Freddie shrank close to their mother’s skirts. Dick uttered a low whistle.
look whispered Cicely.
“You wanted to see an Indian,” whispered Hugh, “Well, here she is!” Everybody sat quite still, while the old crone came close to the group.
“How!” she said at last in a low grunt.
“Good day,” answered Tante pleasantly. “We are picnicking, as you see, in this pretty place.”
“Heard war-whoop,” said the hag sullenly. “Came to see who is on the land of my fathers.” Her look was a challenge. The party exchanged glances. Here was a strange sequel to their talk!
“My father was Chief,” the old woman drew herself up with dignity. “But I am all there is left of my tribe. All this land was ours,” she waved her paddle, apparently indicating the whole shore of the bay. “The white men took it from us. Now I have to get grass for baskets where I can. That is all for me to do.”