a drum, so that we could spread our
hands around it, "to get just a little warm before going to bed."

For the time, he lived at Aunt Betsy's tent, because Solomon Hook was
snow-blind and demented, and at times restless and difficult to
control. The poor boy, some weeks earlier, had set out alone to reach
the settlement, and after an absence of forty-eight hours was found
close to camp, blind, and with his mind unbalanced. He, like other
wanderers on that desolate waste, had become bewildered, and,
unconsciously, circled back near to the starting-point.

Aunt Betsy came often to our tent, and mother frequently went to hers,
and they knelt together and asked for strength to bear their burdens.
Once, when mother came back, she reported to father that she had
discovered bear tracks quite close to camp, and was solicitous that the
beast be secured, as its flesh might sustain us until rescued.

As father grew weaker, we children spent more time upon the snow above
camp. Often, after his wound was dressed and he fell into a quiet
slumber, our ever-busy, thoughtful mother would come to us and sit on
the tree trunk. Sometimes she brought paper and wrote; sometimes she
sketched the mountains and the tall tree-tops, which now looked like
small trees growing up through the snow. And often, while knitting or
sewing, she held us spell-bound with wondrous tales of "Joseph in
Egypt," of "Daniel in the den of lions," of "Elijah healing the widow's
son," of dear little Samuel, who said, "Speak Lord, for Thy servant
heareth," and of the tender, loving Master, who took young children in
his arms and blessed them.

With me sitting on her lap, and Frances and Georgia at either side, she
referred to father's illness and lonely condition, and said that when
the next "Relief" came, we little ones might be taken to the
settlement, without either parent, but, God willing, both would follow
later. Who could be braver or tenderer than she, as she prepared us to
go forth with strangers and live without her? While she, without
medicine, without lights, would remain and care for our suffering
father, in hunger and in cold, and without her little girls to kiss
good-morning and good-night. She taught us how to gain friends among
those whom we should meet, and what to answer when asked whose children
we were.

Often her eyes gazed wistfully to westward, where sky and mountains
seemed to meet, and she told us that beyond those snowy peaks lay
Calif