Edward was not skilful in surgery, but he did the best he could with pocket handkerchief bandages. Little Wolf nerved herself to bear the pain which every movement aggravated, and Edward again lifted her up. "Now, darling, we shall soon get to the top." "Where is Fanny?" said Little Wolf, suddenly remembering her protege. "O, she is somewhere, working her way along in my track," said Edward. Both looked back, and not far behind saw Fanny kneeling with closed eyes beside a snow capped rock. Her tiny hand, rough and red with cold and toil, clasped devoutly upon her breast, and her lips moved as if in prayer. The little black quilted hood she wore had fallen back, revealing soft golden hair, radiant in the slant rays of the declining sun, and upon her cheek a tear glistened like a dew-drop on a flower. "The tears came to Little Wolf's eyes. "Poor little thing! she feels forsaken," she whispered, "let us wait and encourage her." While they were waiting a neighboring farmer happened along; a strong, stalwart man, who joined right heartily in helping them out of their difficulty. The first thing that Edward did when he reached the sleigh was to search for the bottle of sherry. "Strange," said he to Little Wolf, "Mr. Glutter certainly put a bottle of sherry here as I came along, and now it is nowhere to be found. I wish I had it for your sake." Daddy glanced furtively at Little Wolf, who, suspecting the truth, murmured something about feeling better. "He ain't a goin fur to git none of that infarnel stuff down the honey," said Daddy to himself, as the sleigh with Edward, Little Wolf, and Fanny disappeared down the other side of the hill. A consultation was next held between Daddy and the farmer as to the probable condition of Fleet Foot, which was speedily ascertained by the latter who chanced to have a rope with him suitable for letting himself down to where he could test the case. Scaleing the rocks with his temporary ladder, he returned the verdict "died of a broken neck." "I was pretty nigh sartin he was stun dead," said Daddy, gravely. "I'm much, obleeged to ye, neighbor; I guess I'll go hum, bein I can't du nothin fur the poor critter.--I tell ye, neighbor, these are things takes right hold on me. Fleet Foot was a buster, and I sot heaps by him, and so did the honey. 'Tween you and me, that cussed, infarnel liquor drinkin is at the bottom of a awful heap of trouble. If I could make the laws, the hull infarnel stuff would be handled like pison and pistols, ruther keerful." "Wycoff is pretty well off, I guess he can be made to pay pretty heavy damages," said the farmer. "'Tween you an' me, that ere is poor consolation. Supposen the honey's neck had been broken, and the chances was agin her, what money du ye think could pay for her life? I tell ye what, the thing is all wrong, liquor makin and liquor sellin does mischief that no money can't pay fur." CHAPTER XXIII. AN INDIAN MESSENGER--FROZEN TO DEATH.