the signs too well, but
there was nothing she could do.

Pete was a regular visitor at Jeff's and always a welcome one. His work
was to carry the washing to and from camp. He came nearer to feeling
like a man at Jeff's house than at any other place he knew of. Everyone
but Mrs. Hunt and little Marie called him only "Injun," but they always
said "Mr. Shivershee." The "Meester Shivershee" of the little
Frenchwoman was the nearest claim to respectability that Pete felt able
to make. One night while carrying home the clothes, he dropped them in
the mud. He never minded the whipping Bill Gammon gave him half as much
as he did poor Mrs. Hunt's tears, to think how her work had gone for
nothing.

As Pete came trotting down the road, Jeff stood in front of his house
chopping stove-wood from a great log. A lantern, hung on a stump,
provided light for his purpose. Pete stopped from sheer force of habit
in front of the house, and Jeff, glad of any chance to interrupt his
work, paused to talk with him.

"Walk in, Injun," said Jeff, hospitably. "Yer clo'es ain't quite ready,
but the woman will hev 'em all up soon--walk in."

It suddenly came over Pete that this was his night for taking the
clothes home, but his present errand was of far more importance than
mere laundry work.

"Me no stop. I goin' ter town. Great work. Large bizness." By which
vague hints he meant no doubt to impress Jeff with a sense of the
dignity of his mission, and yet cunningly to keep its object concealed.

"Goin' to town, be ye? Great doin's ter camp ter-morrer, I s'pose. I'll
be round ef I kin git away, but walk in, Injun, an' git yer supper, an'
see the wimmin," and Jeff opened the door for Pete to pass in.

The thought of supper was too much for Pete and he slunk in after Jeff
and stood in the corner by the door. The room was hardly an inviting
one, and yet if Pete had been a white man some thoughts of "home, sweet
home," must have passed through his mind. But he was only a despised
"Injun."

A rough board table was laid for supper at one side of the room. In the
corner little Marie lay with the firelight falling over her poor thin
face. Pete must have felt, as he looked at her, like some hopeless
convict gazing through his prison bars upon some fair saint passing
before him. She seemed to be in another world than his; there seemed
between them a gulf that could not be bridged. Three of the larger
children were sobbing in the corner, while the res