The critical light faded from her eyes, to be replaced by another light, this time of interest.
"What for?"
"I was playing Indian in mother's jam."
Most damsels of that age would have asked for further particulars. Instead,—
"Hh!" she sniffed, and the sniff spoke volumes as to the quality of her young imagination.
Scott felt it lay upon him to defend himself from all which the sniff implied.
"'Twas fun, too," he asserted suddenly, as, with a final wipe of his fist across his eyes, he dismissed the outward traces of his grief. "You get things to eat to take with you, and the bed's the camp, and you live there for years and always, all alone. And then they smell the things you're eating and—"
"Who's they?" the small girl demanded.
"Oh, wolves and Indians and things, and they come around and growl awfully. But you aren't afraid. You take your gun, and crawl in under the blankets and go on eating, sure they won't come in after you—"
"What do you eat?"