“I have promised thee, Son, to do nothing to upset Mary’s wedding,” his mother reminded. “I only wish to speak to Claire in private for a few minutes. Thou didst not wish me to speak to her in thy house and I must return to Philadelphia after the wedding.”

Captain Stanton set his mouth. With a stern face he left.

“I’ll wait for you downstairs,” he said.

When he had gone, the grandmother closed the door and turned to the girl.

“Claire, wilt listen carefully to me? I wish thee to forget my son and everyone else and tell me the truth. Art thou really Mary Stanton who was stolen from us by the Indians?”

Stone Girl’s face was cruel to the old woman gazing at her with such appeal.

“I am Stone Girl,” she repeated doggedly.

“But thy name was once Mary Stanton, wasn’t it?”

“Madame Corbusier in Fort Detroit call me Claire,” she answered. “But Stone Girl is my name. My Indian father give it to me.”

“But thou wast not Indian originally. Thou wast white, wast not?”

“A child cannot help how he is born,” she said stoically. “My father, Feast Maker, don’t like white people. He rub white off of me till I am all Indian. See, my eyes are dark. My hair is dark. My skin is dark. I am Indian.”

Stone Girl thought the old woman looked at her with compassion and yearning.

“Claire, I am thy friend. Perhaps I am even thy grandmother. Wilt bare thy shoulders and breasts to me so I can see that all the white is rubbed off thee as thou sayst?”

The girl’s answer was to turn to Otter Boy, speak to him in Delaware, and have him take off his shirt. Then she spoke to her caller in English.

“See his chest. He is Indian. See his back and shoulders. He is Indian all over. He is my son. I am his mother. My son is Indian. I am Indian, too.”

The first bitter expression crossed the old lady’s face.

“Thou art just like my son when he was young, Claire, stubborn and determined to be wild and lead his own life in the forest. Why dost thou do this to me?”

Stone Girl did not say anything. The two women stood facing each other for a long time while the boy’s black eyes searched one face, then the other. The older gave in first.

“I am a tired old woman, my child. I won’t force myself on thee. If thou dost not want me, I shall have to get along without thee as best I can.”

Stone Girl did not reply till the older woman was at the door.

“Ohum,” she said. “You ask question. One time my grandfather, Machilek, tell me a story. It is long story. It is an Indian story. Maybe you don’t want to hear long Indian story?”

“Yes, indeed, I do,” the old lady said, turning. “Wilt tell it to me?” she asked courteously, and Stone Girl began.