For hours at a time Baree would now lie at the Willow's feet, watching her slender fingers as they weaved swiftly in and out with her snowshoe babiche.

And now and then Nepeese would pause to lean over and put her hand on his head, and talk to him for a moment--sometimes in her soft Cree, sometimes in English or her father's French.
It was the Willow's voice which Baree had learned to understand, and the movement of her lips, her gestures, the poise of her body, the changing moods which brought shadow or sunlight into her face.

He knew what it meant when she smiled.

He would shake himself, and often jump about her in sympathetic rejoicing, when she laughed.

Her happiness was such a part of him that a stern word from her was worse than a blow.
Twice Pierrot had struck him, and twice Baree had leaped back and faced him with bared fangs and an angry snarl, the crest along his back standing up like a brush.