“I’d rather keep both if I can,” returned Mrs. M’Clean, laughing.
Polly grinned. “Sure, ye’ll have little trubble kapin’ what ye’ve not got,” she replied saucily. At which Mrs. M’Clean took her by the shoulders and shook her so hard that Polly’s mass of black hair tumbled down in a big coil to her knees. She gathered it up in both hands, and put it back under her cap, laughing at Mrs. M’Clean’s look. “Eh, Jean,” she said, “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll not be likely to lose yer scalp; there’s so little hair ye hev to take a holt on.”
“You’re a saucy creature, Polly,” Mrs. M’Clean replied. “I’ve not your crop on my head, I know, but neither have I so much on my lip.” Polly’s mouth was ornamented by quite a visible mustache, and the laugh was against her, so she gave in cheerfully and turned away.
Seeing Agnes standing aloof with mournful eyes, she went up to her and took her in her arms. “We’re a thriflin’ set, my dear,” she said, “but it’s the relief to the moind and the cessaytion of worriment that makes one so light. An’ yer in trubble, but don’t ye give up whilst there’s a loophole. Manny a one’s been carried off and has escaped, afther years sometimes, so I’d not mourn yet.”
“Ah! but, Polly, if he’s been killed or taken prisoner, what shall I do?”
“Ye’ve twenty or more homes waitin’ fur ye, an’ ye kin begin with mine, an’ stay there till ye weary av it, thin move on to the next.” She indicated the direction of her dwelling by a toss of her head. “It’s still standin’, I’m told, and back we’ll go.”
“But if the Indians come again.”
“They’ll not at wance, I’m sure. They know we’re too many fur ’em. But if ye’d rather stay here in the fort, suit yoursel’, and we’ll all be pleased.”
“I think I’ll stay here,” Agnes replied after a moment’s thought, “for it is here father would come first.”
“Ye’ve hit the nail on the head. To be sure he would, but ye know ye’re welcome to my last bite and sup.”