After a few quieting phrases, which, though they sprang rather from the head than the heart, seemed to achieve their aim, he changed the subject, by pointing across the creek and asking:
“Whose corn is that?”
“Father's, I guess!”
“I thought that was the Indian territory?”
“It is!”
“Is one allowed to sow corn there and to fence off the ground? Don't the Indians object?”
“'Tain't healthy for Indians about here,” she answered carelessly, “I hain't ever seen one. I guess it's allowed; anyhow, the corn's there an' father'll have it cut right soon.”
It seemed to Bancroft that they had not a thought in common. Wrong done by her own folk did not even interest her. At once he moved towards the house, and the girl followed him, feeling acutely disappointed and humiliated, which state of mind quickly became one of rebellious self-esteem. She guessed that other men thought big shucks of her anyway. And with this reflection she tried to comfort herself.
A week or ten days later, Bancroft came downstairs one morning early and found the ground covered with hoar-frost, though the sun had already warmed the air. Elder Conklin, in his shirt-sleeves, was cleaning his boots by the wood pile. When he had finished with the brush, but not a moment sooner, he put it down near his boarder. His greeting, a mere nod, had not prepared the schoolmaster for the question:
“Kin you drive kyows?”