“Among the Indians?”—in well-feigned surprise.—“I am an Indian.”
Her eyes were dancing mischievously.
“You are not a savage,” he replied coldly. “You can’t deceive me.”
“I am not a savage—but I am an Indian, surely. Tenskwatawa is my father.”
And she laughed merrily.
“Why do you tell me that? Do you expect me to believe so palpable a falsehood?”
Instantly her mood changed. Her lips trembled and unshed tears stood in her eyes, as she answered sadly:
“Because it is all I know to tell. My earliest recollection is of playing among the children of the Shawnees. Tenskwatawa was pointed out to me as my father. From that day until I was ten years old—as nearly as I know my age—I was under his charge. During all that time the aged Indian woman, who is my attendant now, ministered to my childish needs and wants—was all the mother I ever knew. At the age of ten I was an uncouth little savage. I went with the tribe from one camp to another. I knew no other life—I cared for naught but the companionship of my savage friends——”
“How similar to my own experience!” he muttered.
“What did you say?” she asked quickly.