She did, however, as soon as he reëntered the living room, refreshed and certainly much more attractive in appearance than when he had the soil and litter of his long wandering upon him.
“Oh! how much more comfortable you must be. How did you get lost? Is your home far from here?”
“A long, long way,” and for a moment something like sadness touched his face. That look passed quickly and a defiant expression took its place.
“What a pity! It will be so much harder to get word to your people. Maybe Pierre can carry a message, or show you the road, once you are strong enough again.”
“Who’s Pierre?”
“Mother Ricord’s son. He’s a woodlander and wiser even than she is. He’s really more French than Indian, but uncle says the latter race is stronger in him. It often is in his type.”
“A-ah, indeed! So you study types up here, do you?”
“Yes. Uncle makes it so interesting. You see, he got used to teaching stupid people when he was a professor in his college. I’m dreadfully stupid about books, though I do my best. But I love living things; and the books about animals and races are charming. When they’re true, that is. Often they’re not. There’s one book on squirrels uncle keeps as a curiosity, to show how little the writer knew about them. And the pictures are no more like squirrels than—than they are like me.”
“A-ah!” said the listener, again. “That explains.”
“I don’t know what you mean. No matter. It’s the old stupidity, I suppose. How did you get lost?”