"
How-ha scowled, but took the note; for she could not shake off the
grip of the ten years of servitude to the superior race.
May I see you?
LUCILE.
So the note ran. Frona glanced up expectantly at the Indian woman.
"Um kick toes outside," How-ha explained. "Me tell um go 'way
quickety-quick? Eh? You t'ink yes? Um no good. Um--"
"No. Take her,"--Frona was thinking quickly,--"no; bring her up
here."
"Much better--"
"Go!"
How-ha grunted, and yielded up the obedience she could not withhold;
though, as she went down the stairs to the door, in a tenebrous,
glimmering way she wondered that the accident of white skin or swart
made master or servant as the case might be.
In the one sweep of vision, Lucile took in Frona smiling with
extended hand in the foreground, the dainty dressing-table, the
simple finery, the thousand girlish evidences; and with the sweet
wholesomeness of it pervading her nostrils, her own girlhood rose up
and smote her. Then she turned a bleak eye and cold ear on outward
things.
"I am glad you came," Frona was saying. "I have _so_ wanted to see
you again, and--but do get that heavy _parka_ off, please. How thick
it is, and what splendid fur and workmanship!"
"Yes, from Siberia." A present from St. Vincent, Lucile felt like
adding, but said instead, "The Siberians have not yet learned to
scamp their work, you know.
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