“What’s the matter, Prairie Flower?”
“My heart is under my feet.” Her voice was harsh.
In the tone one uses to a sulky child, he said:
“Come into the house.”
“You no like me, white man. You like de white woman.”
Smith reached under the blanket and took her hand.
“Why don’t you marry de white woman?”
He pressed her hand tightly against his heart.
“Come into the house, Prairie Flower.”
Her face relaxed like that of a child when it smiles through its tears. And Smith, in the hour when the first real love of his life was at its zenith, when his heart was so full of it that it seemed well nigh bursting, walked back to the house with the squaw clinging tightly to his fingers.