“He looks so formidable,” said Maurice; “especially in twilight, and, except at noon, it is always twilight here. But when you reach him he is nothing but a stump.”
“He is more than a stump,” she insisted. “He is a real Indian, and some day will get up and take a scalp! It gives me a shiver every time I come in sight of him crouched on the trail!”
“Do you know,” complained her lover, “that you haven't told me once to-day?”
“Well—I do.”
“How much?”
“Oh—a little!”
“A little will not do!”
“Then—a great deal.”
“I want all—all!”
Her eyes wandered towards the Indian on the trail, and the bow of her mouth was bent in a tantalizing curve.