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Bower, B. M., 1871-1940

"Good Indian"

TELL, do you hear ? I don't want even the favor of
your silence!" She dexterously tucked the bundle of white under
the uninjured arm, caught the loose folds of her skirt up in her
hands, and ran away up the path, not once stopping to see whether
he still followed her.
Grant did not follow. He stood leaning against the fence-post,
and watched her until her flying form grew indistinct in the
shade of the poplar hedge; watched it reappear in a broad strip
of white moonlight, still running; saw it turn, slacken speed to
a walk, and then lose itself in the darkness of the grove.
Five minutes, ten minutes, he stood there, staring across the
level bit of valley lying quiet at the foot of the jagged-rimmed
bluff standing boldly up against the star-flecked sky. Then he
shook himself impatiently, muttered something which had to do
with a "doddering fool," and retraced his steps quickly through
tho orchard, the currant bushes, and the strawberry patch,
jumped the ditch, and so entered the grove and returned to his
blankets.


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