The Sun Maid could understand the language of the eyes, if not the lips, and she followed their wistful gaze toward the clay bowl from which she had before given him the water. But it was empty now, and seizing it with all her strength, for it was heavy and awkward in shape, she sped out of the wigwam toward a spring she had discovered.
“Four, ten, lots of times Kitty has broughted the nice water, and every time the poor, sick Feather-man has drinked it up. He must be terrible thirsty, and so is Kitty. I guess I will drink first, this time.”
Filling the utensil, she struggled to lift it to her own lips, but it was rudely pushed away.
“Papoose! Would you drink to your own death? The thing is accursed, I tell you!”
“Why, Other Mother! It is just as clean as clean. Kitty did wash and wash it long ago. It was all dirty, worse than my new necklace, but it is clean now. Do you want a drink, Other Mother? Is you thirsty, too, like the sick one and Kitty?”
“If I were, it would be long before I touched my lips to that cup.”
“Would it? Now I will fill it again. Then you must take it, Other Mother, and quick, quick, back to that raggedy house. Kitty is tired, she has come here and there so many, many times.”
“Is it here you have spent this long day, papoose?”
“I did come here when the gray squirrel runned away. I did stay ever since.”