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Updated: June 16, 2025
Can I return to "Greenwater Broad," can I look again at the bailiff's cottage, without the one memorial of little Mary that I possess? Besides, have I not promised Miss Dunross that Mary's gift shall always go with me wherever I go? and is the promise not doubly sacred now that she is dead?
At first sight, Mary's Scotch friends hardly knew her again. But Nature made amends for what the head had lost by what the face and the figure gained. In a year from the date of her illness, the frail little child of the old days at Greenwater Broad had ripened, in the bracing Scotch air and the healthy mode of life, into a comely young woman.
At that hour he would have given ten years of his life to undo his marriage with Mary Greenwater by the ancient custom of the Swiftest Horse. He knew the Indian woman and knew that she intended to kill him and yet he felt helpless, powerless.
He decided to leave the Grand River country and bide his time until Mary Greenwater should make one of her long visits to the hills. One night he mounted the best horse on the ranch and driving thirty others ahead of him, set out for Colorado. On the way he sold most of the horses to ranchmen and cattlemen and netted a neat sum.
The woman was badly injured and they carried her to their campfire and made her comfortable. The next day they constructed a rude litter and carried her twenty miles to a place where she could receive medical attention. The woman was Mary Greenwater, and this was, perhaps, the first act of kindness she had ever received.
When Mary Greenwater returned and found her spouse had vanished, her fury knew no bounds. Ordinarily the Indian squaw might be deserted by her lord and she would stoically accept her fate. Mary might have done so had she not been spoiled by being educated at Carlisle. Her savage blood grew hot for revenge.
Come to me once more, my child-love, in the innocent beauty of your first ten years of life. Let us live again, my angel, as we lived in our first paradise, before sin and sorrow lifted their flaming swords and drove us out into the world. The month was March. The last wild fowl of the season were floating on the waters of the lake which, in our Suffolk tongue, we called Greenwater Broad.
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