Over all there was that indescribable charm of perfect physical health—that charm which makes the homely handsome, without which the most perfect features lack fascination, and which, when added to the handsome woman, places her upon the very pinnacle of female loveliness.
She came forward somewhat timidly, while Hammond, his face aglow with happiness, hurried forward to meet her. Seizing one of her hands in both of his, he pressed it warmly, and exclaimed, in the low, sweet voice of fervent love:
“Lamora, you have granted my prayer; you have come again; you have allowed me to see you.”
“Yes,” she replied, in a low, sweet voice, “you know that Lamora is your friend.”
“I hope she is more than that.”
“No, no.”
Her eyes were upon the ground and she shook her head with an indescribable sadness in her manner.
She was a white woman; she spoke the English language fluently, and she seemed to understand her own race. She was modest and reserved, and although one might reasonably suspect that she felt no little interest in Hammond, yet it was no blind, reckless passion, such as an ignorant person sometimes shows, but a pure, maidenly emotion.
“Lamora,” said the lover, still holding her hand and looking tenderly down in her face, “you are a white person of the same blood as myself; you live among the Indians; do you not wish to return to your own kindred?”