Indeed, there seemed to have come over her a mood of sweet sobriety, of blushing, womanly shyness.
'Mayn't I be your squaw and help you to wash up ?' she said, when he collected the tin pots and pannikins and proceeded to get the camp shipshape.

No, she was not to stir a finger towards the dirty work.

It was HIS job to-night.

Another camping-out time she might play the squaw if she liked.

She was not on in this act.
He amused her greatly by his tidy bush methods.