MOTHER LOVE AND SAVAGE PASSION CONFLICT
It was Sunday, a day later, when Susie came into the living-room and noticed her mother sewing muskrat around the top of a moccasin. It was a man’s moccasin. The woman had made no men’s moccasins since her husband’s death. The sight chilled the girl.
“Mother,” she asked abruptly, “what do you let that hold-up hang around here for?”
“Who you mean?” the woman asked quickly.
“That Smith!” Susie spat out the word like something offensive.
The Indian woman avoided the girl’s eyes.
“I like him,” she answered.
“Mother!”
“Maybe he stay all time.” Her tone was stubborn, as though she expected and was prepared to resist an attack.
“You don’t—you can’t—mean it!”. Susie’s thin face flushed scarlet with shame.
“Sa-ah,” the woman nodded, “I mean it;” and
