Odalie's pulses seemed to cease to beat. The child could hardly have remembered an incident of so long ago without some recent reminder.
"Where, Josephine? Where did you see Willinawaugh?"
But Fifine had no mind to answer, apprehending the agitation in the sharp tones, and translating it as displeasure. She drew her countenance straight in short order, and put a meditative forefinger in her mouth as she looked up doubtfully at her mother.
Odalie changed her tone; she laughed out gayly.
"Fonny! Fonny!" and she too imitated the Indian. Then exclaimed—"Oh, isn't it droll, Fifine?"
And Fifine, deceived, banged her heels hilariously against the door-step, laughing widely and damply, and crying, "Fonny! Fonny!" in infantile derision.
"You didn't see 'Fonny' yesterday. No, Fifine! No!" Odalie had the air of detracting from some merit on Fifine's part, and as she played her little rôle she trembled so with a realization of terror that she could scarcely stand.
Yes, Fifine protested with pouts and anger. She had seen him; she had seen him, only yesterday.
"Where, Fifine, where?" cried Odalie bewildered, for the child sat upon the threshold all the day long, while the mother spun and wove and cooked within the sound of the babble of her voice, the gates of the stockade being closed in these troublous times, and always one or more of the men at work hard by in the fields without.
The mystery was too fraught with menace to be disregarded, but Odalie hesitated, doubting the policy of this direct question. Fifine's interest, however, was suddenly renewed and her importance expanded.