" She showed me all these things, last the saw-edged
bone, or scraping hoe of the squaws, used for dressing hides, as she had
thought.
"Now I am a squaw," she said, smiling oddly. She stood thoughtfully
looking at these things for a time. "Yes," she said, "we are savages
now."
I looked at her, but could see no despair on her face. "I do not believe
you are afraid," I said to her. "You are a splendid creature. You are
brave."
She looked down at me at length as I lay. "Have courage, John Cowles,"
she said. "Get well now soon, so that we may go and hunt. Our meat is
nearly gone."
"But you do not despair," said I, wondering. She shook her head.
"Not yet. Are we not as well off as those?" she pointed toward the old
encampment of the Indians. A faint tinge came to her cheeks. "It is
strange," said she, "I feel as if the world had absolutely come to an
end, and yet--"
"It is just beginning," said I to her. "We are alone. This is the first
garden of the world. You are the first woman; I am the first cave man,
and all the world depends on us. See," I said--perhaps still a trifle
confused in my mind--"all the arts and letters of the future, all the
paintings, all the money and goods of all the world; all the peace and
war, and all the happiness and content of the world rest with us, just
us two.
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