“You do not know her!” said he. “She
will not turn back.”
I had full reason to agree with him.
IN EXCHANGE
Great women belong to history
and to self-sacrifice.
—Leigh
Hunt.
For sufficient reasons of my own, which have been
explained, I did not care to mingle more than was
necessary with the party of the Hudson Bay folk who
made their quarters with the missionary families.
I kept close to my own camp when not busy with my
inquiries in the neighborhood, where I now began to
see what could be done in the preparation of a proper
outfit for the baroness. Herself I did not see
for the next two days; but one evening I met her on
the narrow log gallery of one of the mission houses.
Without much speech we sat and looked over the pleasant
prospect of the wide flats, the fringe of willow trees,
the loom of the mountains off toward the east.
“Continually you surprise me, Madam,”
I began, at last. “Can we not persuade
you to abandon this foolish plan of your going east?”
“I see no reason for abandoning it,” said
she. “There are some thousands of your
people, men, women and children, who have crossed that
trail. Why should not I?”
“But they come in large parties; they come well
prepared. Each helps his neighbor.”
“The distance is the same, and the method is
the same.”
I ceased to argue, seeing that she would not be persuaded.
“At least, Madam,” said I, “I have
done what little I could in securing you a party.
You are to have eight mules, two carts, six horses,
and two men, beside old Joe Meek, the best guide now
in Oregon. He would not go to save his life.
He goes to save yours.”
“You are always efficient,” said she.
“But why is it that we always have some unpleasant
argument? Come, let us have tea!”
“Many teas together, Madam, if you would listen
to me. Many a pot brewed deep and black by scores
of camp-fires.”
“Fie! Monsieur proposes a scandal.”
“No, Monsieur proposes only a journey to Washington—with
you, or close after you.”
“Of course I can not prevent your following,”
she said.
“Leave it so. But as to pledges—at
least I want to keep my little slipper. Is Madam’s
wardrobe with her? Could she humor a peevish friend
so much as that? Come, now, I will make fair exchange.
I will trade you again my blanket clasp for that one
little shoe!”
I felt in the pocket of my coat, and held out in my
hand the remnants of the same little Indian ornament
which had figured between us the first night we had
met. She grasped at it eagerly, turning it over
in her hand.
“But see,” she said, “one of the
clasps is gone.”
“Yes, I parted with it. But come, do I
have my little slipper?”
“Wait!” said she, and left me for a moment.
Presently she returned, laughing, with the little
white satin foot covering in her hand.
