Besides, sooner or later you must know about this Indian.
Wait till we cross the bridge and reach the top of the hill yonder, it will be better going." The hillside gave them a stiff scramble, for the trail went straight up.
But the sure-footed ponies, scrambling over stones and gravel, reached the top safely, with no worse result than an obvious disarrangement of the girl's hair, so that around the Scotch bonnet which she had pinned on her head the little brown curls were peeping in a way that quite shook the heart of Dr.Martin.
"Now you look a little more like yourself," he cried, his eyes fastened upon the curls with unmistakable admiration, "more like the girl I remember." "Oh," she said, "it is my bonnet.

I put on this old thing for the ride." "No," said the doctor, "you wore no bonnet that day.

It is your face, your hair, you are not quite--so--so proper." "My hair!" Her hands went up to her head.

"Oh, my silly curls, I suppose.

They are my bane." ("My joy," the doctor nearly had said.) "But now for the Indian story." Then the doctor grew grave.
"It is not a pleasant thing to greet a guest with," he said, "but you must know it and I may as well give it to you.