"Why did they not take me?" she said. "I am pretty now: she herself said
it."
"They cannot always take you, Felipa," I replied, giving up the point as
to who had said it.
"Why not? I am pretty now: she herself said it," persisted the child.
"In these clothes, you know: she herself said it. The clothes of the son
of Pedro you will never see more: they are burned."
"Burned?"
"Yes, burned," replied Felipa composedly. "I carried them out on the
barren and burned them. Drollo singed his paw. They burned quite nicely.
But they are gone, and I am pretty now, and yet they did not take me!
What shall I do?"
"Take these colors and make me a picture," I suggested. Generally, this
was a prized privilege, but to-day it did not attract: she turned away,
and a few moments after I saw her going down to the end of the plank
walk, where she stood gazing wistfully toward the ocean. There she
stayed all day, going into camp with Drollo, and refusing to come to
dinner in spite of old Dominga's calls and beckonings. At last the
patient old grandmother went down herself to the end of the long plank
walk where they were with some bread and venison on a plate. Felipa ate
but little, but Drollo, after waiting politely until she had finished,
devoured everything that was left in his calmly hungry way, and then sat
back on his haunches with one paw on the plate, as though for the sake
of memory. Drollo's hunger was of the chronic kind: it seemed impossible
either to assuage it or to fill him.
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