ehind her a wild fear
possessed her--fear for Peter, and not for herself. Very soon Hawkins
was left behind, cursing at the futility of the pursuit, and at the
fate that had robbed him of an eye.

Down the coulee and out into the green meadowland of the plain ran
Nada, her hair streaming brightly in the sun, her arms clutching Peter
to her breast. Peter was whimpering now, crying softly and piteously,
just as once upon a time she had heard a baby cry--a little baby that
was dying. And her soul cried out in agony, for she knew that Peter,
too, was dying. And as she stumbled onward--on toward the black forest,
she put her face down to Peter and sobbed over and over again his name.

"Peter--Peter--Peter--"

And Peter, joyous and grateful for her love and the sound of her voice
even in these moments, thrust out his tongue and caressed her cheek,
and the girl's breath came in a great sob as she staggered on.

"It's all right now, Peter," she crooned. "It's all right, baby. He
won't hurt you any more, an' we're goin' across the creek to Mister
Roger's cabin, an' you'll be happy there. You'll be happy--"

Her voice choked full, and her mother-heart seemed to break inside her,
just as life had gone out of that other mother's heart when the baby
died. For their grief, in God's reckoning of things, was the same; and
little Peter, sensing the greatness of this thing that had made them
one in flesh and blood, snuggled his wiry face closer in her neck,
crying softly to her, and content to die there close to the warmth of
the creature he loved.

"Don't cry, baby," she soothed. "Don't cry, Peter, dear. It'll soon be
all right--all right--" And the sob came again into her throat, and
clung there like a choking fist, until they came to the edge of the big
forest.

She looked down, and saw that Peter's eyes were closed; and not until
then did the miracle of understanding come upon her fully that there
was no difference at all between the dying baby's face and dying
Peter's, except that one had been white and soft, and Peter's was
different--and covered with hair.

"God'll take care o' you, Peter," she whispered. "He will--God, 'n' me,
and Mister Roger--"

She knew there was untruth in what she was saying for no one, not even
God, would ever take care of Peter again--in life. His still little
face and the terrible grief in her own heart told her that. For Peter's
back was broken, and he was going--going even now--as she ran moa