Her face was very pretty, and her eyes were as black as coal and seemed to flash fire whenever she looked upon any one.
Of course, her clothing was dripping with moisture, and her call filled us all with wonder. She could speak only a few words of English, so her face lighted up with pleasure when father addressed her in the Sioux language.
As near as we could find out, her name was Chitto, and she lived with her parents at Lac Qui Parle. She told us that there were several families in a spot by themselves, and that day they had secured a quantity of strong drink, of which they were partaking very freely.
At such times Indians are dangerous, and Little Chitto was terrified almost out of her senses. She fled through the storm and the darkness, not caring where she went, but only anxious to get away from the dreadful scene.
Entering, without any intention on her part, the path in the woods, she followed it until she saw in the distance the glimmer of the light in our window, when she hastened to the house and asked for admission.
I need scarcely say it was gladly granted. My mother removed the damp clothes from the little Sioux girl, and replaced them with some warm, dry ones belonging to me. At the same time she gave her hot, refreshing tea, and did every thing to make her comfortable.
I removed the little moccasins from the wondering Chitto's feet, kissed her dark cheeks, and, as I uttered expressions of pity, though in an unknown tongue, I am quite sure that they were understood by Chitto, who looked the gratitude she could not express.
She soon began to show signs of drowsiness and was put to bed with me, falling asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
I lay awake a little longer and noticed that the storm had ceased. The patter of the rain was heard no more upon the roof, and the wind blew just as it sometimes does late in the fall. At last I sunk into a sound sleep.