“Skin!” said Mary; “why, that’s her shawl, brother.”
“I’ll steal one for my squaw,” said he.
“Steal, brother!” said the trembling girl.
“No I won’t, either, sister—don’t you know mother says we must never steal, nor tell stories, nor say bad words.”
“That’s right, brother. But you haven’t got an ugly squaw, have you?”
“No indeed, sister, that I haven’t!”
“I thought you wouldn’t have any thing to do with the ugly squaws.”
“That I wouldn’t—mine’s a pretty one.”
“Oh, heaven!” cried the weeping girl, throwing herself on her brother’s bosom. He kissed her, and strove to comfort her, and turned to the book and continued to turn over the leaves, while Mary sat by in sadness, but ever and anon replying to his childish questions, and still striving to keep him thus diverted.
“Have you any of the clothes you wore when he was a child?” asked Glenn, addressing Roughgrove.