“I see,” said Eugene. “So that’s why they named the place ‘They-Couldn’t-Help-It’!”
“It must have been.”
“And so you’re going to stay here in your garden,” he said musingly. “You think it’s better to keep on walking these sunshiny gravel paths between your flower-beds, and growing to look like a pensive garden lady in a Victorian engraving.”
“I suppose I’m like the tribe that lived here, papa. I had too much unpleasant excitement. It was unpleasant—but it was excitement. I don’t want any more; in fact, I don’t want anything but you.”
“You don’t?” He looked at her keenly, and she laughed and shook her head; but he seemed perplexed, rather doubtful. “What was the name of the grove?” he asked. “The Indian name, I mean.”
“Mola-Haha.”
“No, it wasn’t; that wasn’t the name you said.”
“I’ve forgotten.”
“I see you have,” he said, his look of perplexity remaining. “Perhaps you remember the chief’s name better.”
She shook her head again. “I don’t!”