“She must come home,” Stone Girl said. “Can’t die in woods. I go through bushes and thickets, too.”

“You’re a grown woman, or almost. Nan’s a child. Why didn’t you carry her?”

“I carry sometimes,” Stone Girl told him. “Indian don’t carry all the time. Indian child must walk to be strong.”

“Well, you needn’t have practiced your Indian cruelty on my child,” he said harshly. “And you needn’t have practiced the Indian art of stealing. Not after I took you into my employ and trusted you.”

“Indian don’t steal,” she told him. “Only take back what white man takes from Indian.”

“Well, there’s the painting of my wife,” he reminded her. “You surely don’t believe I or anybody else took that from the savages? One of my men found it where you abandoned it in the woods. You must have found it too heavy and cumbersome to take along.”

“I take it out of the house,” Stone Girl testified. “If house burns, the lady with yellow hair don’t burn.”

His mouth grew sarcastic.

“What else did you ‘take’ from us, as you call it?” And when she did not reply, “How about my wife’s gold chain and cross that belonged to Nan? I think I see it on you now. If you’ll return it to me, I’ll give it back to its rightful owner.”

Stone Girl stood very still. Presently she unclasped the chain and with eyes fastened on the cherished object gave it to him.

“Now you can go to your room until I decide what to do with you,” he told her. “I think you had better stay there for a while. One of my men who lost his wife or child to your friends might take a potshot at you. Meantime you better be sorry.”

“White father—” she began.

“I am not your father,” he interrupted sharply.

“Your black book says we are all related from Adam,” she reminded. “The Indian believed this long before. He calls every man father, grandfather, brother, cousin, or uncle.”

Captain Stanton did not reply. She went on.

“White father. You say to be sorry. Your black book says you white people killed your god. Hang him on tree. Now you white people sorry. Your preacher says Indian must be sorry, too. Why must Indian be sorry? He didn’t kill white god. It was white man’s doing. White father. This happened a long time ago. Now white man be sorry. Maybe after long time white man be sorry he rob Indian. But where is Indian then? White father. Maybe someday white father be sorry he rob daughter. But where is daughter then?”

“I don’t follow you,” Captain Stanton said. “I am extremely sorry for my youngest daughter. My other daughter is in Philadelphia. You are a stranger to us. You say you are Indian. Your boy certainly was Indian. You yourself act like one, you think like one, you talk like one, you sympathize with the savages, and you come back half naked like one. I want you to stay out of sight in your room. When it’s safe to come down and work out your contract, I’ll try to send you up some clothes so you don’t look indecent.”