Ponatah shook her head wearily. "Mary says I belong here, with my people."
"No. You belong with white people—people who will treat you well."
This time the girl smiled bitterly. "They have treated me worse than my own people have. I know them, and—I hate them."
"Ain't you the sore-head, now?" Laughing Bill murmured. "You got a hundred-per-cent. grouch, but if the old medicine-man says he'll put you in right, you bet your string of beads he'll do it. He's got a gift for helpin' down-and-outers. You got class, Kid; you certainly rhinestone this whole bunch of red men. Why, you belong in French heels and a boodwar cap; that's how I dope you."
"There must be a chance for a girl like you in Nome," Thomas continued, thoughtfully. "You'd make a good hand with children. Suppose I try to find you a place as governess?"
"Would you?" Ponatah's face was suddenly eager. "Children? Oh yes! I'd work my fingers to the bone. I—I'd do anything—"
"Then I'll do what I can."
For some time longer the three of them talked, and gradually into the native girl's eyes there came a light, for these men were not like the others she had met, and she saw the world begin to unfold before her. When at last they left she laid a hand upon the doctor's arm and said, imploringly:
"You won't forget. You—promise?"
"I promise," he told her.