Laughing and crying simultaneously, Mary-Lou went staggering into the store.
Loseis remained on the bench watching, with her hands in her lap. The tears were called in; and she furtively wiped away their traces. Conacher had his two Beaver Indians with him. These lingered to fraternize with the Slavis, while the white man came striding across the natural meadow to the foot of the rise. He was bare-headed as usual. A newcomer in the country, the fame of his curly, yellow pate had already spread far and wide. Alongside the Slavis he loomed like a young giant. Loseis had seen him take a Slavi man by the collar in each hand, and lift them clear of the ground. To the waiting girl he was like a god come in answer to her prayer.
She was very quiet when he reached her, her smile tremulous. The change in her from the arrogant little Princess who had used him so despitefully on his first visit was so striking, that at first Conacher could only stand and stare. They never thought to greet each other. Finally Conacher exhibited the little black streamer, limp from being clutched in his warm hand.
“What does this mean?” he asked simply.
“My father is dead,” said Loseis. “Four days ago.”
“Oh, Heaven!” cried Conacher. “And you all alone here! What did you do?”
“I buried him,” said Loseis, spreading out her hands.
“Yourself!”
“There was no other to do it.”
“Oh, my God!”