“As if I’d trade my heart for a red and white bucket; I’m not an Indian squaw to be bought with trinkets.”
“And Archie doesn’t think so. It was only I who said that. Archie is very modest.”
“He’s well aware of his own good traits. He will make a good meenister, and I’m no one to hanker after being a meenister’s wife.”
“You ought to feel honored if ever you are.”
“Maybe, but I think, as I said before, I am ower young.” She put on an innocent, childlike expression, and gave a side glance at Jeanie. “David can make fine bowls, too, and he is to make me one, and, moreover, he is going to tan a famous bearskin for me.” She gave her information carelessly and laughed at the “Oh!” that it extracted from Jeanie. “You must learn from the Indians not to make a sound when you’re being tortured,” she said calmly. “I’ll tell you something else, and see if you can’t do better. David’s mare goes beautifully, and I am to try her some day. He will borrow another, and we are going to—to—” She peeped around at Jeanie who had averted her head and whose face was buried in her hands.
“You didn’t make a sound,” Agnes went on, trying to unclasp her friend’s closely locked fingers. “You are getting on famously.” She laughed softly as she finally pulled away the resisting hands from Jeanie’s face. “Do you hate me, Jeanie?”
“No,” came reluctantly.
“Because it’s wicked to hate people, or because it is I, and you can’t help loving me even if I do tease you?”
Jeanie made no answer.
“Will you confess? Will you say that you like David better than any one in the whole wide world?”