After some moments of drifting, she turned on her side and began to swim along the shore.  She swam with a power and a precision of stroke that a man twice her size would have envied.  But it must be noted that she did not get out of eye and ear shot of the perambulator beneath the willows; and she had not been swimming long before a curious agitation of the mosquito netting brought her ashore.

She wrung the water from her short skirt and was giving little Patience her bread and milk, when Kent returned with a paper bag.

“Ma was cross at me for pestering her, but I managed to get some sandwiches and doughnuts.  Come on, let’s begin.  Gee, there’s a squaw!”

Coming toward the three children seated in the sand by the perambulator was a thin bent old woman, leaning on a stick.

“Dirty old beggar,” said Kent, beginning to devour his sandwiches.

“Isn’t she awful!” exclaimed Lydia.  Begging Indians were no novelty to Lake City children, but this one was so old and thin that Lydia was horrified.  Toothless, her black hair streaked with gray, her calico dress unspeakably dirty, her hands like birds’ claws clasping her stick, the squaw stopped in front of the children.

“Eat!” she said, pointing to her mouth, while her sunken black eyes were fixed on Kent’s sandwiches.

Little Patience looked up and began to whimper with fear.

“Get out, you old rip!” said Kent.

“Eat!  Eat!” insisted the squaw, a certain ferocity in her manner.

“Did you walk clear in from the reservation?” asked Lydia.

The squaw nodded, and held out her scrawny hand for the children’s inspection.  “No eats, all time no eats!  You give eats—­poor old woman.”

“Oh, Kent, she’s half starved!  Let’s give her some of our lunch,” exclaimed Lydia.

“Not on your life,” returned Kent.  “Dirty, lazy lot!  Why don’t they work?”

“If we’d go halves, we’d have enough,” insisted Lydia.

“You told me you’d only enough for yourself.  Get out of here, you old she-devil.”

The squaw did not so much as glance at Kent.  Her eyes were fastened on Lydia, with the look of a hungry, expectant dog.  Lydia ran her fingers through her damp curls, and sighed.  Then she gave little Patience her share of the bread and butter and a cooky.  She laid the precious deviled egg in its twist of paper on top of the remainder of the bread and cookies and handed them to the Indian.

“You can’t have any of mine, if you give yours up!” warned Kent.

“I don’t want any, pig!” returned Lydia.

The old squaw received the food with trembling fingers and broke into sobs, that tore at her old throat painfully.  She said something to Lydia in Indian, and then to the children’s surprise, she bundled the food up in her skirt and started as rapidly as possible back in the direction whence she had come.