stinct might reveal to her mother's heart that the pin-cushion was the work of her little, lost daughter's hand, or that some familiar turn of the letters might arrest her attention, and cause her to exclaim:
"Thus Nattie used to write."
But the Indians were not going in the direction of Nattie's old home; and, even had they been, how could Nattie know that she still had a mother there? This was hardly likely, as the poor woman was so low at the time of her little girl's loss.
"We shall have rare, good times," said Fox Heart, when things were nearly ready for a start; "we shall see all the pale-faces. It is most too bad that you can't go; but white girls aren't fit to march. Pappy had to bring you on his back all the way here, and you was dreadful tired, and slept, and slept. White squaws are not much worth. I guess pappy will bring you home a bright handkerchief, and, perhaps, a red gown,
