ked Vermont mother whose three sons had died in service at
MacDonough's guns; and she told of it in a calm voice, as one who speaks
of her proudest honour. Yes, she rejoiced that God had given her three
such sons, and had taken again His gifts in such a day of glory. Had
England's rulers only known, that this was the spirit of the land that
spoke, how well they might have asked: "What boots it if we win a few
battles, and burn a few towns; it is a little gain and passing; for
there is one thing that no armies, ships, or laws, or power on earth,
or hell itself can down or crush--that alone is the thing that counts or
endures--the thing that permeates these men, that finds its focal centre
in such souls as that of the Vermont mother, steadfast, proud, and
rejoicing in her bereavement."

But these were forms that came and went; there were two that seldom were
away--the tall and supple one of the dark face and the easy tread, and
his yellow shadow--the ever unpopular, snappish, prick-eared cur, that
held by force of arms all territories at floor level contiguous to,
under, comprised, and bounded by, the four square legs and corners of
the bed.

Quonab's nightly couch was a blanket not far away, and his daily,
self-given task to watch the wounded and try by devious ways and plots
to trick him into eating ever larger meals.

Garrison duty was light now, so Quonab sought the woods where the flocks
of partridge swarmed, with Skookum as his aid. It was the latter's
joyful duty to find and tree the birds, and "yap" below, till Quonab
came up quietly with bow and blunt arrows, to fill his game-bag; and
thus the best of fare was ever by the invalid's bed.

Rolf's was easily a winning fight from the first, and in a week he was
eating well, sleeping well, and growing visibly daily stronger.

Then on a fleckless dawn that heralded a sun triumphant, the Indian
borrowed a drum from the bandsman, and, standing on the highest
breastwork, he gazed across the dark waters to the whitening hills.
There on a tiny fire he laid tobacco and kinnikinnik, as Gisiss the
Shining One burnt the rugged world rim at Vermont, and, tapping softly
with one stick, he gazed upward, after the sacrificial thread of smoke,
and sang in his own tongue:

"Father, I burn tobacco, I smoke to Thee. I sing for my heart is
singing."

Pleasant chatter of the East was current by Rolf's bedside. Stories
of homes in the hills he heard, tales of hearths by far away l