“Must be an Indian,” muttered Tom.
“It must be a woman!” exclaimed Ruth. “It is a woman, Tom! I’m going to ask her——”
“What?” demanded the youth; but he trailed along behind the self-reliant girl of the Red Mill.
The woodchopper did not even raise her head as the two young folks approached. She beat upon the log she was splitting with the old axe and showed not the least interest in their presence.
Ruth led the way around in front of her and demanded:
“Do you know where Mr. Peters’ daughter is? We had business with him, and they tell us he is away from home.”
At that the woman in men’s shabby habiliments raised her head and looked at them.
“Jiminy!” exploded Tom, but under his breath. “It is a girl!”
Ruth was quite as curious as her companion; but she was wise enough to reveal nothing in her own countenance but polite interest.
The masquerader was both young and pretty; only the perspiration had poured down her face and left it grimy. Her hands were red and rough—calloused as a laboring man’s and with blunted fingers and broken nails.