At this the laughers laughed harder than ever, and the frowners scowled deeper.
"What does the brat mean? Get right out of here," said one of the latter.
"Hold on, hold on," said one of the laughers. "Let us hear what the child wants. I know who she is. It's little Rowena. Who did you want, child?"
"You," she replied. "All of you. I want the selected men."
"Well, here we are," returned the good natured one. "What's your business?"
"I come for the Princess Polawee, Sir."
Then how all those men stared and again took their pipes out of their mouths. Most of them had heard the story of a child in the village who had been changed by the spirit of the beloved Indian maiden, and even the frowners stopped frowning as they stared at the little girl with the fair forehead and happy, eager eyes.
"Don't talk nonsense," said one of them at last. "The Princess Polawee died before your grandmother was born."
"Yes," replied Rowena, "but her river goes on, and it is sad to see it look so changed since her time. It should be pure and clear as it used to be. Nobody seems to care but the weeping willows, and children can't see themselves in it any more. They think they are ugly and bent and dark, when the river would be so glad to give them back the true picture."