"Yes. I guess she's all you say."
The older man's eyes had come back to the handsome face lit with passionate enthusiasm. There was a twinkle of dry humour in them.
"I know, boy," he said gently. "I get all that. That's why I want to get right out now and hand her thanks and welcome to your home. Guess it's not my way to have folks who've made near five hundred miles to do me good service, standing around waiting while I'm asked to pass 'em welcome. Guess I want to shake this white girl, with the queer Indian name, by the hand. I want to make her just as welcome as I know how. Do you feel like helping me that way?"
In a moment a great laugh broke, through the shadow of disappointment that had fallen upon Marcel's eyes at the other's first words.
"You can just kick me, Uncle Steve," he cried. "You surely can. Guess I'm every sort of crazy fool, trying to tell you the thing that's Keeko's to tell. But I didn't think," he added, passing a hand across his forehead. "I don't seem to be able to just now. You see—Say come right along."
"So you're—Keeko."
Marcel was standing by, looking on with a smiling happiness lighting his face. But he was not observing. Observation at such a moment was impossible to him. He was feasting his happy eyes on the girl's pretty face under the brown fur cap which had been tilted from her forehead. He was looking for her approval of Uncle Steve, and her smiling blue eyes seemed to him all sufficient.
Had he been less concerned with Keeko he must have discovered that which was looking out of Steve's eyes. It was a curious, searching look that had something startled in it. He must have become aware that, for all the older man's self-restraint, something was stirring within him, something that robbed him of a composure that the dangers and trials of the life that was his had on power to rob him of. Uncle Steve was smiling responsively, a gentle, kindly smile, but it was utterly powerless to deny the other expression.
Keeko withdrew her hands which had been held for a moment in both of Steve's.