So Lottie took them in hand. She was a motherly decent soul. She scrubbed the kitchen till the boards shone; she blackened the stove, and swept the hearth; she kept Buckskin cleaner than his mother had done. His bath in the kitchen was a melodious riot of chuckles, squeals, splashings, and the rippling laughter of the three little girls. The laughter of little Indian girls is the prettiest laughter in the world.
Derek grew to love Buckskin more every day. He became the centre of his life. He feared sometimes that Fawnie might return and steal him away, and he would not have him often out of his sight. He took long rides at this time and he would have Lottie bundle the boy in his rabbit-skin coat and cap, and place him before him on the horse. Off they would gallop, making the snow fly, making the bridge ring with the dash of hoofs. Buckskin would gravely clutch a bit of the rein in his tiny mittened hands, and his cheeks would glow, and his eyes sparkle and glint with all the changeful brightness of the lake. He learned to shout "Ho!" for "Whoa."
One day they met the Jerrolds. There was no escape, and Derek must face Grace with that offspring of his wildness and his weakness between them. Grace leaned forward in her saddle to look into the little rosy face. "Oh, he is a darling!" she breathed. "A darling." Her arms moved toward him without her volition, as though she must take him to her breast and hold him.
Surprise and delight made Derek's heart pound. Grace liked his child—that child. Gratitude misted his vision of her. He drew his horse nearer that she might touch the boy. She lifted him to the saddle before her and kissed him. Nothing small about Grace—nothing grudging—nothing cruel. Their eyes met over the boy's head—they could
