touching my heart like a little fleeting welcome. It must have been the
spring, and the bright day; I have thought it over since. Also, I
admired the curve of her eyebrows.

She said something about my place; how I had arranged things in the hut.
I had hung up skins of several sorts on the walls, and birds' wings; it
looked like a shaggy den on the inside. She liked it. "Yes, a den," she
said.

I had nothing to offer my visitors that they would care about; I thought
of it, and would have roasted a bird for them, just for amusement--let
them eat it hunter's fashion, with their fingers. It might amuse them.

And I cooked the bird.

Edwarda told about the Englishman. An old man, an eccentric, who talked
aloud to himself. He was a Roman Catholic, and always carried a little
prayer-book, with red and black letters, about with him wherever he
went.

"Was he an Irishman then?" asked the Doctor.

"An Irishman...?"

"Yes--since he was a Roman Catholic."

Edwarda blushed, and stammered and looked away.

"Well, yes, perhaps he was an Irishman."