The old woman shook her head. The possession of that secret hoard had been one of the chief delights of her old age; nothing but the approach of death could have induced her to reveal her mystery even to her grandchild. She had bitterly lamented leaving it behind when she was forced to leave her home on the island, but she feared that it might be discovered by some watchful eye, and so concluded to leave it in its hiding-place.
“It may have been stolen,” Mahaska said.
“No, no,” returned Ahmo, with more energy than she had before betrayed; “Ahmo did her work well—even with the knowledge she has given her, Mahaska will find it hard to discover her gold.”
Mahaska was reflecting upon some means of placing the gold in her own possession. She had no one whom she chose to trust on an errand like that, while to go herself was an undertaking not at all agreeable to contemplate. The thought of increasing her wealth was delightful enough in itself, though there was a much broader passion than mere avarice reigning in her mind—the greater her wealth the more extended her influence. Gold and power—her soul centered its hopes on the two.
She looked at Ahmo and her heart softened again—she could not conceal from herself that the old woman was dying—a little time and she would be alone of all her race.
“Mahaska is not angry with Ahmo?” the woman demanded, rousing herself quickly.
“Angry? no! Mahaska loves Ahmo; her heart is knit fast to that of her grandmother.”
The old squaw’s face lighted up with a gleam of pleasure. She crept nearer to her grandchild and sheltered her head in the folds of her dress.
“Ahmo only kept her treasure secret to please her old age; it will be all Mahaska’s now.”
“Ahmo did well; Mahaska cares nothing for the gold, she would rather see her grandmother strong and vigorous than to possess all the gold the world could offer.”