“Kasba,” he said earnestly, then stooped over her, gently tilting her chin upwards so that he could see her face more closely, “why won’t you promise to marry me when we get back to Churchill?”
“Because I am a bad, wicked Indian,” she said presently with a show of impulse, and tearing herself free.
The man stood staring at her, thunderstruck. “You bad! You wicked!” he ejaculated, greatly amazed. Then, suddenly his look of amazement changed to one of outrage. His brow darkened and his eyes struck fire. “If Bekothrie (master) has——” he began, shaking his fist in the air.
But the girl sprang to her feet and stopped him with some little excitement. The bird she was plucking fell from her lap to the feathers in the bowl and sank out of sight. “Hush, Sahanderry!” she cried, severely. “Remember, it is of the master you are speaking.”
The man fairly hung his head.
Now Kasba with all her impetuosity possessed considerable sense of justice and grasping his arm tightly, she went on resolutely. “You must not speak against Mr. Thursby. This trouble is all of my own making. I alone am to blame. I have been very silly, and—if you will forgive me and be patient with me, I—I—” she dropped her head.
“You will love me?” he suggested, eagerly, his face betraying the liveliest emotions.
She was silent several moments, then raised her face, a little paler than it had been, but with a passionless resolve set on it. “If I can,” she responded bravely, giving him her hands. “I will try to love you, I—” she stopped and his arms went about her.
“You make me very happy!” he said. Then he kissed her.
She closed her eyes to shut out the look on his face, and pushed him gently from her. “No, no; not now!” she said, all in a tremble. “Give me time. Give this evil spell time to pass away, and be good and patient with me.”