“Once only did Wonota hear from her father.  He was then in a detention camp, for, being a good American, he refused to bow down to Hun gods—­”

“I should say he had a right to call himself an American, if anybody has,” said Jennie quickly.

“And he is not the only Indian who proved his loyalty to a Government that, perhaps, has not always treated the original Americans justly,” Ruth remarked.

“I dunno,” grumbled Uncle Jabez.  “Injuns is Injuns.  You say yourself this gal is pretty wild.”

“She is independent, at any rate.  She wishes to earn enough money to set afoot a private inquiry for Chief Totantora.  For she does not believe he is dead.”

“Well, the poor dear,” Aunt Alvirah said, “she’d ought to be helped, I haven’t a doubt.”

“Now, now!” exclaimed the miller, suspiciously.  “Charity begins at home.  I hope you ain’t figgerin’ on any foolish waste of money, Niece Ruth.”

The latter laughed.  “I don’t think Wonota would accept charity,” she said.  “And I have no intention of offering it to her in any case.  But I should like to help the girl find her father—­indeed I should.”

“You’d oughtn’t to think you have to help everybody you come ’cross in the world, gal,” advised Uncle Jabez, finally picking up the cash-box to retire to his room.  “Every tub ought to stand on its own bottom, as I’ve allus told ye.”

When he was gone Aunt Alvirah shook her head sadly.

“Ain’t much brotherhood of man in Jabez Potter’s idees of life,” she said.  “He says nobody ever helped him get up in the world, so why should he help others?”

“Of all things!” exclaimed Ruth, with some warmth.  “I wonder what he would have done all these years without you to make a home for him here!”

“Tut, tut!” objected the old woman. “’Tain’t me that’s done for him.  I was a poor lone creeter in the poorhouse when Jabez Potter came and took me out.  I know that deep down in his old heart there’s a flame of charity.  Who should know it better?”

“Oh, dear!” cried Ruth.  “He keeps it wonderfully well hidden—­that flame.  He certainly does.”

Jennie laughed.  “Well, why shouldn’t he be cautious?  See how many times you have been charitable, Ruth, and seen no gratitude in return.”

“Well!” gasped the girl of the Red Mill, in disgust, “is that what we are to be charitable for?  For shame!”

“Right you are, my pretty,” said Aunt Alvirah.  “Doin’ one’s duty for duty’s sake is the way the good Lord intended.  And if Jabez Potter is charitable without knowin’ it—­and he is—­all the better.  It’s charged up to his credit in heaven, I have no doubt.”

The girls were tired after their long ride in the keen evening air and they were ready for bed at a comparatively early hour.  But after Ruth had got into bed she could not sleep.

Thoughts rioted in her brain.  For a week she had felt the inspiration of creative work milling in her mind—­that is what she called it.  She had promised the president of the Alectrion Film Corporation to think up some unusual story—­preferably an outdoor plot—­for their next picture.  And thus far nothing had formed in her mind that suggested the thing desired.