* * * * *
Maarda had finished her story, but the recollections had saddened
her eyes, and for a time we both sat on the deck in the violet
twilight without exchanging a word.
"Then the little Tenas Klootchman is yours now?" I asked.
A sudden radiance suffused her face, all trace of melancholy
vanished. She fairly scintillated happiness.
"Mine!" she said. "All mine! Luke 'Alaska' and his wife said she
was more mine than theirs, that I must keep her as my own. My
husband rejoiced to see the cradle basket filled, and to hear me
laugh as I used to."
"How I should like to see the baby!" I began.
"You shall," she interrupted. Then with a proud, half-roguish
expression, she added:
"She is so strong, so well, so heavy; she sleeps a great deal, and
wakes laughing and hungry."
As night fell, an ancient Indian woman came up the companion-way.
In her arms she carried a beautifully-woven basket cradle, within
which nestled a round-cheeked, smiling-eyes baby. Across its little
forehead hung locks of black, straight hair, and its sturdy limbs
were vainly endeavoring to free themselves from the lacing of the
"blankets." Maarda took the basket, with an expression on her face
that was transfiguring.
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