Some remembered trace he found in her features,
perhaps the look, the shape of her eyes--all else was unfamiliar.
And that all else was a white face, blue-veined, with rich blood
slowly mantling to the broad brow, with sweet red lips haunting in
their sadness, with glorious eyes, like violets drenched in dew,
shadowy, exquisite, mournful and deep, yet radiant with beautiful
light.
Neale recognized her beauty at the instant he realized her love, and
he was so utterly astounded at the one, and overwhelmed with the
other, that he was mute. A powerful reaction took place within him,
so strong that it helped to free him from the other emotions. He
found his tongue and controlled his glance.
"I took you for an Indian girl in all this buckskin," he said.
"Dress, leggings, moccasins, I made them all myself," she replied,
sweeping a swift hand from fringe to beads. "Not a single button!
Oh, it was hard--so much work! But they're more comfortable than any
clothes I ever had."
"So you've not been--altogether idle since I left?"
"Since that day," and she blushed exquisitely at the words, "I've
been doing everything under the sun except that grieving which you
disliked--everything--cooking, sewing, fishing, bathing, climbing,
riding, shooting--AND watching for you.
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