CHAPTER XVI.
Painful Recollections—The Last Boat of the Season—Ruffled Plumes—Reconciliation.
hen Little Wolf awoke the next morning, her mind instantly reverted to the painful subject, that had banished sleep from her eyes the greater part of the night, and, as the shameful scene came up again vividly before her, she buried her face in her pillow and groaned aloud. While thus indulging afresh her grief and mortification, she was aroused by a sound which turned her thoughts in another direction. She started up eagerly and threw open the window which commanded an extended view of the river, and, in the distance, she could just discern through the fast falling snow, a brave little steamer, as if by magic ploughing its way up through snow and ice.
Little Wolf hung out of the window half in fear lest the welcome vision should vanish; but it kept steadily onward, drawing nearer and nearer to its destination, and soon she had the satisfaction of seeing it safely moored, and, by the active discharge of freight, it was evident that it would attempt a downward trip.
The thought of home banished every other from her mind, and she hastily drew inside and shook the white flakes from her glossy hair, and began to arrange them in curls. But the unruly locks had blown about so long in the wind, and got so cold and tangled and required so much coaxing and brushing, that Little Wolf began to despair of ever getting them in order.
Just then she observed on the dresser a bottle of what she supposed to be pomatum, but in reality, a mixture for the lungs, made of honey and other ingredients, which by exposure to the cold had partially congealed. She caught it up and literally saturated her hair in the contents and then with great spirit proceeded to her task.
At the first onset the brush stuck fast; "Dear me what ails it?" she ejaculated throwing down the brush and making desperate dives with a coarse tooth comb.
By this time her pretty tangled ringlets had stiffened into a striking resemblance to cork screws interspersed with porcupine quills. By a succession of impatient jerks she endeavored to bring the wayward mass to submission; but the more she attempted to separate and arrange, the closer the loving locks embraced each other, and she was beginning to despair of conquering the difficulty, when she heard a light knock and Mrs. Tinknor's kind voice said "May I come in?"
"O dear, yes," said Little Wolf, springing to the door, "do come in, my dear Mrs. Tinknor, and tell me what this horrid pomade is made of."