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"Yes. Girl with light, frizzy hair and green eye." The man who had used the knife scalped his enemy, and slowly, hidden by the grass, crept down the hill that he had just ascended, and when he reached the cover of a low place Mīka´pi rose to his feet and crept away. He had another Snake scalp tied to his belt. His heart was glad, but he was not satisfied. "I am sorry I can tell you nothing," says Mona, shaking her head. "I was never in this wood before; I know nothing of it.".
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And Mona, rousing herself from her unsatisfactory reverie, draws her breath quickly and then moves homeward. "Why make a fool of me?" the poor man asked. "My heart is sad. I am crying." He covered his head with his robe and wept. Two tears gather, and roll slowly down Mona's white cheeks. And then somehow her thoughts wander back to the old farmhouse at the side of the hill, with the spreading trees behind it, and to the sanded floor and the cool dairy, and the warmth of the love that abounded there, and the uncle, who, if rough, was at least ready to believe her latest action—whatever it might be—only one degree more perfect than the one that went before it. "And do you know," she says, with charming naivete, not looking at him, but biting a blade of grass in a distractingly pretty and somewhat pensive fashion, "do you know her neck and arms are not a patch on mine?".
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