And I looked at her with a curious feeling that my dreams were coming true.

Dark--high-cheeked--a blanket--and (unless the eyes with which I gazed almost reverentially at the dirty leather socks deceived me) moccasins--she was, she must be, a _squaw_! Probably Dennis had come to the same conclusion, when, waving the tabby-coloured _arums_ he said, "I'll ask her what these are," and gaily advanced to carry out his purpose.
"Ye're daft," said Alister, getting red.
"It's a North American Indian!" said I.
"It's a woman, anyhow!" retorted Dennis over his shoulder, with a twinkle of his eyelashes that drew from Alister in his broadest accent, "The lad's a pairrfect libberrteen!" an expression which he afterwards retracted and apologized for at considerable length.
Within a few feet of the squaw Dennis lifted the broad-brimmed hat which I had bought for him directly we landed, and then advancing with a winning smile, he asked the name of the flowers in very good Irish.

The squaw smiled too; she touched the flowers, and nodded and said something in a soft, rapid and unknown tongue, which only made Dennis shake his head and smile again, on which she spoke in a language still dark to Alister and me, but not so to Dennis, who, to our amazement, replied in the same, and a dialogue so spirited ensued, that they both seemed to be talking at once.

Alister's face was a study when Dennis put out his hand towards the squaw's gold cross, and all but touched it, and then (both chattering faster than ever) unbuttoned his throat and drew out his crucifix to show her.

His last act was to give her half the tabby-striped _arums_ as they parted.