Then she raises her head and says-- "How did you ever come to be the old Indian woman's son, Verty ?" Verty's dreamy eyes fall from the sky, where a circling hawk had attracted his attention, to Redbud's face.
"Anan ?" he says.
Redbud greets this exhibition of inattention with a little pout, which is far from unbecoming, and too frank to conceal anything, says, smiling-- "You are not listening to me.

Indeed, I think I am worth more attention than that hawk." "Oh yes, indeed you are!" cries Verty; "but how can you keep a poor Indian boy from his hunting?
How that fellow darts now! Look what bright claws he has! Hey, come a little nearer, and you are mine!" Verty laughs, and takes an arrow.
Redbud lays her hand upon his arm.

Verty looks at the hand, then at her bright face, laughing.
"What's the matter ?" he says.
"Don't kill the poor hawk." "Poor hawk?
poor chickens!" says Verty, smiling.

"Who could find fault with me for killing him?
Nothing to my deer! You ought to have seen the chase, Redbud; how I ran him; how he doubled and turned; and when I had him at bay, with his eyes glaring, his head drooping, how I plunged my knife into his throat, and made the blood spout out gurgling!" Verty smiled cheerfully at this recollection of past enjoyment, and added, with his dreamy look-- "But I know what I like better even than hunting.

I like to come and see you, and learn my lessons, and listen to your talking and singing, Redbud." By this time they had reached the house, and they saw Miss Lavinia sitting at the window.