He laughed. "Well, I like to think they are. But if not, then Falling—Day will put a meal on the table that should make up for the trouble. Here she is, and Many-Doves with her."

Anyone would know them for mother and daughter. Identical in height, slender but wiry, Falling—Day was a sparser, more compact version of Many-Doves . There were twistings of gray in the long braids that hung over her shoulders, and fans of deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but she moved like a younger woman, and there was a quickness in her that made her stand out; she reminded Elizabeth of her aunt Merriweather.

It was the smile that drew the final link: Falling—Day's resemblance to Hannah was unmistakable. Nathaniel's mother—in—law, then, and the younger woman—perhaps twenty years old—his wife's sister. Many-Doves ' face was less guarded than her mother's; curiosity and wariness, hope and caution, were all there, in quick succession. Elizabeth could not remember ever seeing a young woman for whom nature had done more. There was an elegance to her bearing that was outdone only by the perfect proportions of her face, and the fine set of her eyes.

Elizabeth murmured things she thought she should say, and took their hands in turn, trying not to stare at the younger woman.

"You can call me Abigail, if you prefer," said Many-Doves . She took Elizabeth's hand firmly and met her eyes without flinching.

"Don't let Otter hear you do it, though," said Hannah, who had come up behind Elizabeth. "He won't like it."

"It's my name and not Otter's," said Many-Doves . "And it's none of your business, either." She added something in Kahnyen’keháka that made Hannah wrinkle her nose in protest.

"Enough," said Chingachgook behind them in strong tones." Speak English now, or you'll offend our guest." In the firelight Elizabeth noted how his tattoos seemed to flicker and move: a snake wound its way across the bony protrusions of his cheekbones, over the bridge of his nose, and around one eye to his forehead, where it disappeared into the sparse white hair at his temple. She wondered if Nathaniel was tattooed, as well, and then put this thought away.

It seemed for a moment as though Many-Doves would take offense: a flurry of irritation flitted across her face. But then she smiled reluctantly and turned to follow her mother into the next room, with Hannah in tow.

"Might I help?" Elizabeth called after her, but Many-Doves fluttered a hand behind her in a gesture of dismissal, and Elizabeth turned back to the men. Hawkeye had taken up a stool and was oiling a trap with a feather dipped in a strong—smelling grease; Chingachgook was braiding leather strips. Elizabeth looked around, self—conscious in her curiosity but unable to do otherwise. She found herself in a large common room, dominated by the hearth at one end, the other extreme lost in shadows. Every inch of space was dedicated to some purpose. On a large table stacked with all manner of equipment for the casting of bullets and gun—cleaning, a trap had been taken apart. Under a shuttered window, another table dominated by a large oil lamp was covered with papers and books. Bookcases stood to either side. The corners were lined with barrels of various sizes, a churn, stretching panels, a spinning wheel, and a small loom. Pelts were tacked on the walls and piled in the corners: Elizabeth recognized fox, and the great tawny fur of what she took to be a panther, and another, darker one of a small bear. Set up in a neat row, furs dried inside out stretched over individual boards. Hawkeye kept up a running commentary and told her what she wanted to know: the reddish—brown pelts were marten, the luxuriant dark ones, fisher.

In the center of the room there were rocking chairs and stools and a long board flanked by benches, set for a meal. From the rafters hung corn by braided husks, squashes strung together like outlandish necklaces, wild onions, apples, and great bundles of dried greenery and herbs Elizabeth could not begin to name.

On the mantelpiece there was a basket of sewing, and one of beadwork. Elizabeth picked up the volumes she found there one by one: Defoe's A Journal of the Plague Year, a thumbed newsprint copy of the Declaration of the Rights of Man in the original French, and even more surprising, a volume of poetry by Robert Burns.

"She was a great reader," Hawkeye said behind Elizabeth. He came up behind her to touch a small painting of a woman in an oval frame.

"I see that," Elizabeth said. "But I wonder how she managed to get this—" She picked up the Burns. i"I wouldn't have thought that he could have come so far. Most people in England aren't familiar with this poet at all."

"Won't give him the time of day, you mean," Hawkeye corrected her, but with a smile. "The upstart, the scallywag. Ain't that what you're thinking?"

"Well. . ." Elizabeth put the volume back down again. "He is a bit . . . incendiary. How did your wife come by these volumes? And these others—"

"She was a Scot, and they stick together like their confounded porridge. Hardly a traveler ever came through Paradise from outwards without a parcel for Cora from somebody, and half the time it was books."

Elizabeth went up on tiptoe to look at the painting more closely. Hawkeye put the portrait into her hands. It was simply drawn, but strong sense of the woman was caught in it. She had a clear, high brow, dark hair, and hazel eyes.

"Nathaniel has his mother's coloring."

"And he's as quick as she was, and just as stubborn."

"With definite dislikes," agreed Elizabeth.