Sal looked sharply at her. “You Indian?” she asked. Beverly laughed.
“You haven’t forgotten, have you?” she said. “Pocahontas lived more than two hundred years ago. I am her descendant; part Indian.”
Sal grunted. “Part Indian, all same Indian. I give you baskets cheap.” And she began to spread out her wares on the floor; many hued baskets, moccasins, birch-bark frames and knick-knacks.
“I will show you my basket,” said Beverly running into the cabin and bringing out a rather unsymmetrical shape which she was making of sweet-grass braid. Sal looked at it critically. “I show you better,” she said. And with strong, deft fingers she taught Beverly how to shape and strengthen the basket with a bit of willow to hold it firm. Not contented with this, Sal began a new basket of sweet grass, and showed Beverly how to start right.
“Oh, thank you!” drawled Beverly, with the pretty manner that made everyone like her. “Now I must buy a nice basket of you, to show Mother how it really should be done.” She had already chosen one of the more expensive baskets, with some bows and arrows for the Twins, and a little canoe for a small brother at home; when up came Nancy with Norma and Anne. The latter was in a rather bad humor.
“I didn’t know you were dressing,” Nancy was apologizing. “I thought you might like to get some baskets.”
“I don’t care about these baskets,” grumbled Anne, glancing scornfully at the display on the piazza floor. “Idlewild is full of them. They are quite ordinary; ugly colors. These traveling Indians never have anything decent. We can get a better choice in the store at home. Oh!”—she stooped and picked up a pair of moccasins in soft natural-grey sealskin—“These are really quite pretty. How much are they?”
The squaw eyed her sulkily, then snatched back the moccasins with what would have been very bad manners in one who knew better. “Not for sale!” she cried. “You live in the big house over there?” she pointed towards the south, towards Idlewild.
“Yes; my father Mr. Poole’s house is there,” assented Anne, wondering how the squaw knew.
“Land of my tribe!” muttered Sal Seguin. “Bad man stole it off my people. Your father, bad man, got it off them. No luck to him! He drove me off his place one time. Would not let his people buy!”