CHAPTER XIII
INDIAN HOSPITALITY
Among the hoarded possessions of gentle “Mother Waring” which fell to her little girl, was a large and varied collection of Indian photographs. Stella had often turned them over and over, with almost painful interest; she did so once again; and after choosing with great care a single one, laid all the rest away.
The picture that now stood conspicuously on her old-fashioned bureau was a large one taken in Washington many years earlier. It showed a group of three strong faces belonging to leading men of the Sioux in the middle of the nineteenth century—the last, indeed, of their tribal leaders, trained in native ways.
“I don’t think that’s a very pretty picture,” remarked Cynthia, carelessly, one day when the three friends had gathered in Stella’s little chamber up under the eaves. “Why didn’t you pick out that one in the beaded shirt and eagle-feather war-bonnet down to his heels?”
“I liked the cunning little baby in its mother’s arms,” Doris suggested.
“Or that perfectly splendid young Indian man who’s in college somewhere, going to be a minister,” persisted Sin. “Seems to me these old Indians in long hair and plain clothes are rather a hard-looking crowd,” she added.
It was often difficult for Stella to explain herself. She was silent now, but her cheeks took on the dark flush they wore when she was deeply moved. Cynthia saw it, and hastened to add: