his father
was the cleverest man in the world, and how he made long journeys every
winter to look for something he couldn't find.

It was all told without regard for continuity or purpose. It seemed to
Steve as if the little fellow was loosing a long pent tide held up from
lack of companionship till the bursting point had been reached.

As they came to the house, however, a sudden change came over the scene.
The door abruptly opened, and a tall, handsome squaw, dressed in the
clothes of rougher civilization, stood regarding them unsmilingly. To
his surprise she was not only beautiful but quite young.

The boy's chatter ceased instantly and his face fell. One small mitted
hand approached the corner of his pretty mouth, and he regarded the
woman with quaint, childish reproach. It was only for a moment, however.
With a sudden brightening of hope he turned and gazed up appealingly at
his new friend.

"Don't let hers wash us, Uncle Steve," he implored.

* * * * *

Deep distress looked out of Steve's steady eyes. He was gazing at a
wreck of beautiful womanhood lying on the bed. There was no doubt of the
beauty of this mother of little Marcel. It was there in every line of
the pale, hollow cheeks, in her clear, broad brow. In the great, soft
grey eyes which were hot with fever as they gazed at him out of their
hollow settings. Then the abundant dark hair, parted now in the centre,
Indian fashion, and flooding the pillow with its masses. It was dull and
lustreless, but all its beauty of texture remained.

She had summoned him at once to her sick room through An-ina. And in her
greeting had briefly told him of the trouble which had befallen her.

"Maybe you'll think it queer my receiving you this way," she said, in a
tired voice, "but I can't just help myself. You see, I can't move hand
or foot." Then a pitiful smile crept into the wistful eyes. "It happened
two weeks ago. Oh, those two weeks. I was felling saplings with An-ina
in the woods out back. Maybe a woman can't do those things right.
Anyway, one fell on me, and it just crushed me to the ground, and held
me pinned there. I thought I was dead. But I wasn't. I was only broken.
Maybe I'll die here--soon. An-ina got me clear and carried me home. And
now--why, if it wasn't for my little Marcel I'd be glad--so glad to be
rid of all the pain."

The note of despair, the tragedy in the brief recital were overwhelming.
The full force of th