After his first start of surprise Henry stared and then managed a smile. Instantly the face of the little squaw brightened; red lips parted and white teeth gleamed at him most amiably, most encouragingly. He closed and opened his eyes quickly to make sure he had not been dreaming.
"I guess you are better," she said, in a perfect idiom with only the slightest trace of accent. The voice was refined—even cultured.
"I guess I am," said Harrington, struggling with a husk in his throat, but managing another smile.
"Perhaps you would like some more broth now."
"More broth?" murmured Henry confusedly.
"Yes," smiled the little squaw in a most self-satisfied way, and already she was up, passing round him with padding moccasined footsteps to the fireplace, where he heard the clang of a kettle cover; and a few seconds later she was back and holding a graniteware cup to his lips. Preceding the cup came a most delightful savor to his nostrils, a gamy, spicy fragrance that made him immensely hungry. The broth tasted as good as it smelled.
"It is delicious," he said, smacking his lips and feeling strangely content.
"Where am I?" it occurred to him to ask.
"On Lahleet's Island."
"And who is Lahleet?" Henry inquired. "Never heard of the lady, or her island."
"I am," the Indian girl answered demurely.
Henry started slightly and found himself contemplating the little woman with speculative interest. She was certainly a self-contained little piece.
"And how did I get to your island?"
