She was hardly five
years old, but she was an acute child; and she watched her master
draw forth the papers, show them to his wife, Polly, and lock them up
in the desk, with the full understanding that they had something to
do with her coming to this strange place; and, already, a shadowy
purpose began to form itself in her mind.
She sat on a cunning little wooden stool, close to the fireplace, and
kept her small chapped hands persistently over her face; she was
scared, and grieved, and, withal, a trifle sulky. Mrs. Polly Wales
cooked some Indian meal mush for supper in an iron pot swinging from
its trammel over the blazing logs, and cast scrutinizing glances at
the little stranger. She had welcomed her kindly, taken off her outer
garments, and established her on the little stool in the warmest
corner, but the child had given a very ungracious response. She would
not answer a word to Mrs. Wales' coaxing questions, but twitched
herself away with all her small might, and kept her hands tightly
over her eyes, only peering between her fingers when she thought no
one was noticing.
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