"Oi see me little girrls are plazed ter see yez," said Patrick, beaming proudly upon the little ones. Kathleen held up for his inspection some paper dolls Esther had brought her. Then the smile on his face broadened. He laid his pipe on the shelf and examined the dolls critically. "Did yez iver see the loike on it, now? Shure, an' did yez say 'Thank yez' ter the lady?" "Yep," answered Kathleen, and "Yep," echoed Nora. "An' phwat is the matther wid Wathemah?" asked Patrick, as he approached the little Indian. "Got hurted." "Broked his arm." "Fell off old Jim." "Miss Bright mended his arm," came in quick succession. "Poor little lad. Oi'm sorry yez got hurted." And the kind-hearted man patted the child on the head. He liked Wathemah. But the little visitor was intent on the two little girls and their gay paper dolls. Esther now expressed a wish to hear some of her host's stories of pioneer life in Arizona. Patrick drew himself up. He felt his self-respect rising. "Them wuz awful toimes," he said, puffing away at his pipe again; "but Oi wuz young an' sthrong. The Apaches wuz on the warpath most av the toime, an' we fellers didn't know but we'd be kilt ony minute. We slipt wid wan oi open, an' our guns by our soides." "It must have been very exciting," said Esther, with marked interest. "It certain wuz exciting. It wuz bad, too, ter come back ter y'r shack an' foind y'r rations gone, or no shack at all." "What would you do then?" she asked. "Oh, we wint hungry till we caught fish, or shot deer." Here he lighted his pipe again, and drew long whiffs. "What were you doing in those days?" questioned Kenneth. "Me business wuz always wid cattle. Sometoimes the Apaches would go off wid some o' me cattle." "Did you ever get them back?" asked Esther. "Sometoimes." He smoked in silence a few minutes. "I understand the Apaches are still treacherous," she said. Just then she felt Wathemah's hand on her arm. "Wathemah Apache," he said. "He no bad. He good." "Yes," she acknowledged, smiling, "you _are_ getting to be a pretty good boy, dear." Her smile did more for the child than did the words. "Pop," said Samuel, "them air Apaches we seen up canyon t'other day's ben skulkin' aroun'. Yer'd better carry a gun, schoolma'am." Supper was now announced, and discussion of the Indians ceased. The younger children, joyfully anticipating the feast before them, had forgotten all their mother's preliminary instructions on etiquette at table, and there was a tumultuous scramble. "Murphy!" called Mrs. Murphy in stentorian tones as she stood with arms akimbo, "seat schoolma'am at y'r right!"