At the sound of his voice Mrs. Crittenden looked away from Vincent
quickly and looked at him for a perceptible moment before she heard what
he had said. Then she explained, smiling, "Oh, she would object very
much to being labeled with the finicky title of 'lady.' That was Touclé,
our queer old Indian woman,--all that is left of old America here. She
belongs to our house, or perhaps I should say it belongs to her. She was
born here, a million years ago, more or less, when there were still a
few basket-making Indians left in the valley. Her father and mother both
died, and she was brought up by the old Great-uncle Crittenden's family.
Then my husband's Uncle Burton inherited the house and brought his bride
here, and Touclé just stayed on. She always makes herself useful enough
to pay for her food and lodging. And when his wife died an elderly
woman, Touclé still just stayed on, till he died, and then she went
right on staying here in the empty house, till my husband and I got
here. We were married in Rome, and made the long trip here without
stopping at all. It was dawn, a June morning, when we arrived. We walked
all the way from the station at Ashley out to the old house, here at
Crittenden's. And . . . I'll never forget the astounded expression on my
husband's face when Touclé rose up out of the long grass in the front
yard and bade me welcome. She'd known me as a little girl when I used to
visit here. She will outlive all of us, Touclé will, and be watching
from her room in the woodshed chamber on the dawn of Judgment Day when
the stars begin to fall."

Mr. Welles felt a trifle bewildered by this, and showed it. She
explained further, "But seriously, I must tell you that she is a
perfectly harmless and quite uninteresting old herb-gatherer, although
the children in the village are a little afraid of her, because she is
an Indian, the only one they have ever seen. She really _is_ an Indian