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“Nay, I’ll grant that,” said McCoy. “She seems a contented little body.”

“I’d be pleased to say the like o’ my wench, Susannah,” said Martin, glumly. “She was willin’ enough to come away with us, but now we’re here she’s fair sick to be home again. I’ve had no good of her since we beached the ship.”

“It’s in reason she should be, Isaac,” McCoy replied. “My woman’s the same way. Gie ’em time; they’ll joggle down well enough. Mills’s lass here’ll learn ’em how to make the best of things, won’t ’ee, Prudence?”

The girl’s lips parted in a ready smile, revealing her small white teeth.

“How d’ye manage with her, John?” Martin asked. “Ye’re the dumbest o’ the lot for speakin’ the Indian lingo. Is it sign talk ye use with her?”

“Never ye mind about that,” Mills replied gruffly. “I’ve no call to learn their heathen jabber. Prudence takes to English like a pigeon picks up corn.”

“They’re a queer lot, all these Indian wenches,” said Martin. “Why is it, now, they make such a fuss about cookin’ the food?”