“Guka, Mamma. But the woman with black buttons doesn’t have a gun. And she is the proudest of all.”

“Otter Boy. There is still another reason. It is the Yengwe’s pale skin. Your grandfather, Feast Maker, told me the pale skin comes from being afraid. You yourself know how fearful the white man is of poor Pitquok, the moth. He is still more afraid of other white men. He hangs heavy oaken doors on his houses and hides his ornaments in an iron box. But most of all he is fearful of dirt and scrubs every speck of dirt from his skin. He has done this so many years that today his skin is white and thin. Now the Indian is not a fearful man. He hangs only a loose hide for a door to his cabin. When he goes away, he just lays a stick across on the ground outside and no Indian would think of going in or taking anything. Least of all is he fearful of dirt. He knows that his mother, the Earth, is of dirt and heals him. He sees corn and beans and nuts and pawpaws and sweet tobacco all come out of the dirt. So he has never scrubbed the good earth color from his skin.”

“Guka, Mamma. I always thought the white man looked sick. Now I know he is only pale from scrubbing and fear,” Otter Boy said. “Guka, Mamma. If you don’t shake now, perhaps I can go to sleep.”

The next afternoon was Sunday, when the inn served cold meats and breads for supper. Stone Girl had an hour free with Otter Boy in their room. All week the sun had been hot on the stable roof and the door of the room stood open for stable air. It was almost time to go back to her work when she heard voices first below and then on the creaking stable stairs. Otter Boy, who ran to the door, came back with a startled face. Soon someone knocked politely on the open door.

“May I come in?” a voice asked, and it was Ohum, the grandmother. Her son, Captain Stanton, loomed tall and dark-faced behind her.

Stone Girl stood up as she had been taught in front of her elders. She had also been taught to welcome the guest with food and drink and a place to sit down, but of these she had none. So she just stood while the grandmother gave a sickening look around the room, then at the girl with dismay.

“It is very warm,” the visitor made talk. “I am told thou speakest the Delaware language. How dost say it is warm in Delaware?”

“We say Wusca or Ktschingiehellen, it has much sunshine.”

The lady repeated the words with difficulty. All of them except Captain Stanton had to smile.

“It must be a very hard language for thee to learn,” she said.

“Not hard for an Indian.”

“But I believe thou saidst thou’rt white?” the grandmother questioned, glancing at her son for confirmation.