"What is it?" he asked gently. He pointed to her hand.
"It is--my charm. It is to bring me good."
"May I see it?" The man's voice was so kind that it filled Timid Hare with perfect trust.
"You will--help me?" The child's eyes were full of pleading.
"Yes, little one."
Slowly Timid Hare drew forth the sock. It was faded and soiled, yet the pattern in which the silk had been woven into the worsted was quite plain.
"How did--Why, tell me at once how you got this." The man's voice was half stern, half pleading.
"It was--so." With this beginning Timid Hare repeated the story as White Mink had told it to her. Many a time she had since told it to herself during her hard life with The Stone. It was such a strange story--so full of wonder to her still. The wonder of it was in her voice even now.
The man listened with half-closed eyes, but saying never a word till she finished. Then, as in a dream, he said in a low tone: "It is my baby's sock--the pattern is one planned by my dear wife Alice who died out on this lonely prairie. And then--the sudden attack of the Dahcotas--and I made prisoner, while my baby Alice was left behind to perish. Afterwards I was rescued, though I cared little to live."
"But child, child," he burst out, "though your eyes have the same color, the same expression as those of my dear wife, your skin is that of the red people."