Miss Morrison felt the incident to be a touching one. She even reproached herself for thoughtless adherence to routine, and during the rest of the morning gave a quite unusual degree of attention to her new charge. It appeared that Stella had the correct eye and delicate hand of her race; she was an excellent penman; she had been well drilled in the essentials. More: she was eager, alert, intense—quick to spring upon an idea as a cat upon its prey.
Most of the children went home at noon, and no sooner was school dismissed than Cynthia Parker, whose near-sighted brown eyes had been turned anxiously, half maternally toward the stranger, at the cost of frequent, though not unusual, blunders in her own recitations, darted to her side and began to speak rapidly.
“I know who you are; Doris Brown told me; she’s that yellow-haired girl in pink—see! she’s looking this way. My name’s Cynthia Parker and I hope we’ll be friends—I read everything I can get hold of about Indians—mother says I’m just like one. Do you like dogs?” And almost before Stella could find breath to reply, in her pretty, precise English, that she did, Sin had taken up the tale.
“I’ve got two—that’s the big one waiting for me outside—his name’s Sir Walter Scott, but we call him Scotty for short. Here, Scotty, old fellow!” And as the gaunt hound rushed upon them both, nearly knocking them down in his eagerness, she threw her arms around his homely neck and hugged him with an unaffected ardor that quite warmed the new girl’s heart.
“Let’s walk slowly and get behind; can we?” she whispered, shyly. “They do look at us so!” In fact, there was unwonted lingering that day, and much open whispering, which the three pretended to ignore. Doris had waited, as usual, and joined them at the door.
“Of course we can; nobody has dinner till half past twelve, and it’s only five minutes’ walk to your house,” she assented, pleasantly, while Cynthia bluntly remarked:
“They’re awfully disappointed, you know, because you didn’t wear your Indian suit to-day—a blanket and feathers in your hair. Why, you look almost exactly like anybody else, in that nice, brown linen.”
“Indian girls don’t wear feathers; only the men do that,” smiled the new girl, who much preferred to “look like anybody else,” and found personalities a bit embarrassing. Still, she was feeling a good deal better in the company of her new-found friends.
“Then do they all wear pretty blouses and stylish hats?” Sin unblushingly inquired.
“Well, there aren’t many of the old-style dresses left among the Sioux—my people. Why, a blanket robe trimmed with real elks’ teeth, or one of beaded doeskin, is worth a hundred dollars! Besides, nearly all the girls go to school nowadays, and wear dresses and hats like mine,—only not quite so pretty, perhaps, because my dear mother made these and she has such good taste,” ended Stella, loyally and lovingly.