Slowly a head appeared above the window ledge—an Indian head, crowned with feathers. Polly stared at it as if paralyzed.
Slowly, while she spoke, a head had appeared above the window ledge—an Indian head, crowned with feathers. Polly stared at it as if paralyzed. The Indian returned her gaze, gave a swift glance about the room, made a slight movement of the head backward, and disappeared. Polly’s hand reached back to clutch convulsively at the cradle. She spoke breathlessly, haltingly:
“And now—the time my Daniel grandfather disappeared—tell about that!”
The Indian returned the girl’s gaze, then glanced swiftly about the room.
Granny sighed deeply. “What, another tale? Eh, well, it is your story, too! Dan’l had always the wanderfoot; he was a great one for wanting to see the far side of things. He’d urge and beg me to go along—but how could I, me with small children? We quarreled about it a good deal. But I always said to him—for that sort must never be apron-tied—I said, ‘You go first, and if it’s so grand over there as you think, come back one of these days in your coach-and-four and fetch your family.’ Again and again he’d get so mad he’d take me at my word—only to come slipping meekly home after a week or a month, or maybe two of them. Because he loved me, you see, for all my quarrelin’ ways.”
“Yes. And you him?” queried the girl, softly.
“Eh, child, better than you know! Better than I knew myself, perhaps.”
“Better than—your children?” whispered Polly.