"Humph! Indian want match. Give Indian match. Indian build fire," was the explanation.
Billy shook his head, and the Indian turned away disappointed.
"That Betty'd leave you to be eaten up by Indians," grumbled Billy, and, because he was so angry and because he had been so badly frightened over nothing, he began to cry.
"Billy, Billy, don't cry, I came back after you, you poor child." It was the voice of Aunt Florence, though Billy couldn't see her.
"Here I am, behind this clump of goose-berry bushes, Billy. I didn't dare come straight back, so I kept behind trees and bushes. Come quick; now let's run."
"There isn't anything to run for, Aunt Florence," sobbed Billy. "Don't you see, they're just tame Indians, and wouldn't hurt anybody? Don't you see the little Indian children and the squaws, too? I s'pose they've come with baskets to sell. Yes, there comes a squaw, going to town now with a load of baskets."
"Then I guess I'll sit down and rest a minute," said Aunt Florence, "for I'm tired out. It's dreadful to be so frightened. I'm trembling yet."
"Me, too," confessed Billy. "Where's that Betty?"
"Home by this time, I presume," was the laughing reply, "unless she couldn't stop running when she got there, in which case she's probably in the lake. Well, Billy, let's walk on now, or the whole missionary society will be coming to our rescue."
"Oh, Billy, I've been crying my eyes out, fear something had happened to you," was Betty's greeting when she saw her little brother.