"Why, nothin'," she returned with a child's surprised simplicity.
"Nothin' but Twinklin' Island an' father an' me."

There was silence then, but the Man watched the strong, straight
lines of her face, her keen black eyes, her wealth of black hair
tumbled into the back-fallen sunbonnet. At length he said
quietly:

"Think I'll g'long over with you to your island, camarada. Maybe
your father's got a bite o' something for a hungry man. I pay the
freight, sabe? 'Twon't take me more'n a couple o' hours to make
the railroad to-night."

To this she vouchsafed nothing, but swung onward, shifting her
heavy basket from one hand to the other; then a strong grasp
intervened, and she found herself burdenless. In the village
streets of Potuck and Nogantic, shamefaced lads had offered such
help a hundred times, and she had accepted it, flattered by their
homage; but the quick, silent action of this big, red-haired man
thrilled her with strange anger.

"I don't want no help," she said proudly, "I kin carry that."

"Not while I'm here, chiquita mia!" He smiled downward, and his
body seemed to loom over her like a shield. "Say, when I woke up
an' seen you, do you know what come into my head? A little Navajo
squaw I knowed once. Her name was Moonlight Water, but the
fellers called her Little Peachey. But she was twenty-five, and
you--well, now, how old might you be?"