their admiration was almost a little awed. Her cheeks were crimson
between her loosened rich braids of hair; her eyes shone deeply
blue, and the fantastic costume, with its fluttering strips of
leather and richly colored wampum, gave an extraordinary quality
of youth and almost of frailty to her whole aspect.

"The woman just sent this home. I couldn't resist showing you!"
said Rachael, in a shower of compliments. "Isn't my tiger a
darling? Warren went six hundred and seventy-two places to catch
him. Of course there never was a stripey tiger like this in North
America but what care I? I'm only a poor little redskin; a
trifling inconsistency like that doesn't worry ME!"

"Me taky you my wikiup-HUH!" said Frank Whittaker invitingly. "You
my squaw?"

"Come here, Hattie Fishboy," said her husband, catching her by the
arm. His face showed no more than an amused indulgence to her
caprice, but Rachael knew he was pleased. "Well, when you first
planned this outfit I thought it was going to be an awful mess,"
said he, turning her slowly about. "But it isn't so bad!"

"Isn't so bad!" Mrs. Bowditch said scornfully; "it's the loveliest
thing I ever saw. I'll tell you what, Rachael, if you come down to
Easthampton this summer we'll have a play, and you can be an
Indian--"

"I'd love it," Rachael said, and making a deep bow before her
husband she added: "I'll be Squaw-Afraid-of-Her-Man!"