“Yes—I know her,” he replied cautiously. “Go on with your story.”
But she did not. Instead she inquired:
“How long have you known her?”
“Ever since I was a captive among the Indians,” he answered candidly. “She nursed me when I was wounded; she helped me to escape.”
Her woman’s intuition enabled her to arrive at the truth at a bound. Calmly she said:
“Ross, you love this beautiful girl—you love La Violette.”
He made no reply in words. But the hot blood crimsoned his tanned cheeks and mounted to his white forehead. Then the tell-tale tide receded as quickly as it had arisen; and again he was outwardly calm.
At that moment, the woman who had been caring for the baby approached the mother and remarked:
“The little thing’s gone to sleep, at last. I see you’re feelin’ better,”—in a slightly sarcastic tone—“so I’ll let you take care of her now, while I look after my own affairs.”
“I thank you for your kindness,” Amy murmured confusedly.