“Too pretty. It hurts,” said the girl very low, her hand at her breast.
Granny looked at her curiously.
“Humph! You’re over young to be having a sunset hurt you, my dear.”
Polly, at the spinning wheel, was having rather poor success. The thread broke.
“Here, let me show you!” Granny spoke impatiently. “Steady, no jerking—why, have you forgotten everything your poor mother taught you before the savages got her? Poor Annie! A fool woman, but a fine hand at the spinning and weaving. Eh, what’s this—tears? I’ve not seen you cry before.” She gathered the girl’s head against her breast, her voice softening. “There, there, was it because I spoke of your mother, and that terrible time? You were so young, I thought maybe you didn’t remember. Polly! Do you remember?”
Polly shook her head, uncertainly.
“Then, what is wrong? Come, my dearie, tell it out, my lamb! That’s what Grannies are for. ’Tain’t much they haven’t come to understand⸺”
Polly said, in a very low voice, “The moccasins—”
Granny laughed aloud, relieved but sympathetic.
“Is that all? Because he didn’t wear ’em, you mean, didn’t seem to appreciate them? Lord love you, that’s a man all over. He didn’t realize, pet, he didn’t know you wanted him to show off well before all those men at the Court meeting. But he appreciated the moccasins just the same, appreciated most of all the love you put into ’em. Polly! It was love you put into ’em, wa’n’t it?”