he sat down before the kitchen stove and dozed till he was awakened by Peek bringing in the milk.
It was a mild morning of delicate blue sky and little white clouds like puffs of smoke. Sparrows pecked and twittered on the flags outside the kitchen door as though it were spring. Derek carried Buckskin out for an airing and strolled up and down in the sunshine. Both were bareheaded and Buckskin held a large sweet apple from which he with difficulty took small bites with his square little teeth. Derek had washed his face and hands and brushed his hair so that he was fresh as the morning. He cooed, he laughed, he pressed wet kisses on Derek's cheek, and kicked his heels on Derek's side as though to lose his mother was a matter of light concern. After one questioning look at Derek he had taken his breakfast from the bottle without more ado, as one who said, "Bottle is it? Well, here goes!" A remarkable baby.
Derek held him close. He would not have parted with him for worlds.
He was so taken up with the child that he did not see a group of people coming down the road until they had turned in at the gate. Then he perceived that they were Indians. The group was composed of a man, his wife, three little girls, a grown-up son. The man, terribly emaciated, leaned heavily on the squaw's shoulder. The young man carried several large bundles and an old-fashioned carpet bag. He set them down with a grunt of weariness as he reached Derek's side, but he turned to his mother as though it had been arranged that she was to speak first.
She was a wholesome, good-looking woman of about five and forty. Her clothes were clean and neat, and her three little girls, who resembled pretty Italian children, looked decently cared for. After taking her breath, for she had been much burdened, she said in a soft, husky voice: "I
