"I
wish you could have seen Wanda," she said. "The girl is quite a beauty.
Half wild, of course, but with a sort of barbaric splendour about her
that dazzles and bewilders one. You will understand when you see her,
why the Indians speak the word 'pale-face' with a contemptuous
inflection."
"I suppose," mused Edward, "that paleness to them means weakness, lack
of blood, vitality, courage, and all that most becomes a man. Yet as a
matter of taste I prefer white to copper colour." His blue eyes were
bent upon the lily-like face of Helene.
"Wait till you see her," was his sister's laughing response.
"And that will be many moons hence, to use the language of our
story-teller, if she continues as elusive as the wind. I have had
glimpses of her, or rather of the flutter of her vanishing raiment.
A being with a wonderfully perfect face, clothed in heterogeneous and
many-coloured garments, and educated on the amazing fictions with
which her foster-father's memory seems to be stored, would be worth
waiting to see."
But he had not long to wait. As he stood on the beach in the absence
of his companions, who were carefully retracing their steps to the
wigwam in search of a glove, presumably dropped by the way, he caught
sight of the Indian girl, her back turned towards him, lazily rocking
herself in his boat.
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