Redbud made no reply.
"Ma mere would never tell me anything about myself," the young man went on, wistfully, "and I can't know anything except from her. I must be a Dacotah or a Delaware."
Redbud remained thoughtful for some moments, then raising her head, said:
"I do not believe you are an Indian, Verty. There is some mystery about you which I think the old Indian woman should tell. She certainly is not your mother," said Redbud, with a little smiling air of dogmatism.
"I don't know," Verty replied, "but I wish I did know. I used to be proud of being an Indian, but since I have grown up, and read how wicked they were, I wish I was not.
"You are not."
"Well, I think so, too," he replied; "I am not a bit like ma mere, who has long, straight black hair, and a face the color of that maple—dear ma mere!—while I have light hair, always getting rolled up. My face is different, too—I mean the color—I am sun-burned, but I remember when my face was very white."
And Verty smiled.
"I would ask her all about it," Redbud said.
"I think I will," was the reply; "but she don't seem to like it,
Redbud—it seems to worry her."