lting and
degrading epithets. The little articles that Cecil gave to it, in the
hope that the Indians seeing him manifest an interest in it would
treat it more tenderly, it put to its mouth eagerly; but not finding
them eatable, it threw them aside in disgust. Cecil turned away sick
at heart. Worn, already weary, this last sight was intolerable; and he
went out into the woods, away from the camp.

But as he walked along he seemed to see the child again, so vividly
had it impressed his imagination. It rose before him in the wood, when
the noise of the camp lay far behind; it seemed to turn its sightless
eyes upon him and reach out its emaciated arms as if appealing for
help.[12]

Out in the wood he came across an Indian sitting on a log, his face
buried in his hands, his attitude indicating sickness or despondency.
He looked up as Cecil approached. It was the young Willamette runner
who had been his companion on the journey down the Columbia. His face
was haggard; he was evidently very sick. The missionary stopped and
tried to talk with him, but could evoke little response, except that
he did not want to talk, and that he wanted to be left alone. He
seemed so moody and irritable that Cecil thought it best to leave him.
His experience was that talking with a sick Indian was very much like
stirring up a wounded rattlesnake. So he left the runner and went on
into the forest, seeking the solitude without which he could scarcely
have lived amid the degrading barbarism around him. His spirit
required frequent communion with God and Nature, else he would have
died of weariness and sickness of heart.

Wandering listlessly, he went on further and further from the camp,
never dreaming of what lay before him, or of the wild sweet destiny to
which that dim Indian trail was leading him through the shadowy wood.

-----

[10] Lewis and Clark.

[11] See Parkman's "Oregon Trail," also, Parker's work on
Oregon.

[12] See Townsend's Narrative, pages 182-183.

CHAPTER II.

THE WHITE WOMAN IN THE WOOD.

I seek a sail that never looms from out the purple haze
At rosy dawn, or fading eve, or in the noontide's blaze.

CELIA THAXTER.

Cecil walked listlessly on through the wood. He was worn out by the
day's efforts, though it was as yet but the middle of the afternoon.
There was a feeling of exhaustion in his lungs, a fluttering pain
about his heart, the