"The Great Spirit is angry," murmured the young girl, her eyes
dilating, and her breast heaving.
"Well, experience teaches me that the best course to pursue when
people are angry is to keep perfectly still until the storm blows
over. It's no use talking back. Ah! don't do that," he implored as
she stooped and kissed the ground.
"But I must. It will propitiate the angry spirit and preserve us from
danger."
"Oh, how can you waste your sweetness on the desert earth, in that
fashion? It _may_ preserve us from danger, but it is likely to have a
contrary effect on me."
The temporary shelter afforded by the interlacing branches overhead
was now beaten down by the strength of the storm, which descended in
torrents. "Ah! you are afraid," he observed softly, drawing nearer to
her.
"It is for you," she responded, "The rain is no more to me than it is
to a red squirrel, but you, poor canary bird, your yellow head should
be safe in its own cage."
This anxious, motherly tone brought a smile to the lips of the young
man. A sudden thought struck his guide. Grasping his hand she drew him
swiftly along until they reached the hollow trunk of an immense oak,
into which she hastily thrust him.
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