I only heard his nonchalant “Ah! indeed!” when, with a hot flush on my cheek, and an angry resentment in my heart, I rose, and without a word of adieu left them, and walked across the street to the Union. I knew they could see me from the window, and I fancied them laughing at my discomfiture. I was just debating whether I would leave the Springs and continue my tour of travel alone, or stay there and make love to Miss Finnock, when I saw the little flat face and wide eyes of the lady in question peeping out the parlor door. As I approached she smiled a froggy little smile, and said:
“Have you seen my brother or Mr. Marshman? I have been expecting them some time.”
“No, indeed,” I replied, offering my arm; “shall we go in search of them, or wait here in the parlor?”
“We had best wait, perhaps,” she said, glancing toward two chairs in a shaded corner.
We took our seats, and her ceaseless little tongue began:
“Oh! Mr. Smith, you should have been with us this morning.”
“Why and where?” I said, affecting Laconicism.
“Mrs. Marshman and I walked out to the Indian encampment near here, and we saw there such an interesting old woman. She claims to be of the royal line of chiefs, and, in her broken way, talks very prettily of the encroachments of the whites upon the hunting grounds of her fathers.”
“To one of your poetic temperament, Miss Finnock,” I replied, “she must indeed be an object of interest. What a romantic sadness attaches itself to a contemplation of the destiny of these forest children! Poor, fading race! A few squalid beggars are all that are left of the legions of feather-decked warriors who once fought their battles here. Ever receding before the resistless march of civilization, the last tribe will soon chant their death-song on the shores of the Pacific, and sink with the setting sun in its waves.”