"Yes, this is my little Tenas Klootchman," she said, as she unlaced
the bands, then lifted the plump little creature out on to her lap.
Soon afterwards the steamer touched an obscure little harbor, and
Maarda, who was to join her husband there, left me, with a happy
good-night. As she was going below, she faltered, and turned back
to me. "I think sometimes," she said, quietly, "the Great Spirit
thought my baby would feel motherless in the far Spirit Islands, so
He gave her the woman I nursed for a mother; and He knew I was
childless, and He gave me this child for my daughter. Do you think
I am right? Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said, "I think you are right, and I understand."
Once more she smiled radiantly, and turning, descended the
companionway. I caught a last glimpse of her on the wharf. She was
greeting her husband, her face a mirror of happiness. About the
delicately-woven basket cradle she had half pulled her heavy plaid
shawl, beneath which the two rows of black velvet ribbon bordering
her skirt proclaimed once more her nationality.
The Derelict
Cragstone had committed what his world called a crime--an
inexcusable offence that caused him to be shunned by society and
estranged from his father's house.
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