ell that
girl come, be all time my girl. Five days ago, that girl come. Her heap
glad; boys all time heap glad, my man heap glad. Bueno. Mebbyso you glad
me have one girl." Not that their approval was necessary, or even of
much importance; but Phoebe was accustomed to treat them like spoiled
children.

Hagar's lip was out-thrust again. "Yo' ketchum one girl, mebbyso yo' no
more likum my boy Wally. Kay bueno."

"Heap like all my boys jus' same," Phoebe hastened to assure her, and
added with a hint of malice, "Heap like my boy Grant all same."

"Huh!" Hagar chose to remain unconvinced and antagonistic. "Good Injun
kay bueno. Yo' girl, mebbyso kay bueno."

"What name yo' girl?" Viney interposed hastily.

"Name Evadna Ramsey." In spite of herself, Phoebe felt a trifle chilled
by their lack of enthusiasm. She went back to her butter-making in
dignified silence.

The squaws blinked at her stolidly. Always they were inclined toward
suspicion of strangers, and perhaps to a measure of jealousy as well.
Not many whites received them with frank friendship as did the Hart
family, and they felt far more upon the subject than they might put into
words, even the words of their own language.

Many of the white race looked upon them as beggars, which was bad
enough, or as thieves, which was worse; and in a general way they could
not deny the truth of it. But they never stole from the Harts, and they
never openly begged from the Harts. The friends of the Harts, however,
must prove their friendship before they could hope for better than an
imperturbable neutrality. So they would not pretend to be glad. Hagar
was right--perhaps the girl was no good. They would wait until they
could pass judgment upon this girl who had come to live in the wikiup
of the Harts. Then Lucy, she who longed always for children and had been
denied by fate, stirred slightly, her nostrils aquiver.

"Mebbyso bueno yo' girl," she yielded, speaking softly. "Mebbyso see
yo' girl."

Phoebe's face cleared, and she called, in mellow crescendo: "Oh,
Va-ad-NIEE?" Immediately the singing stopped.

"Coming, Aunt Phoebe," answered the voice.

The squaws wrapped themselves afresh in their blankets, passed brown
palms smoothingly down their hair from the part in the middle, settled
their braids upon their bosoms with true feminine instinct, and waited.
They heard her feet crunching softly in the gravel that bordered the
pond, but not a head turned that way; for all