But on this memorable night there was yet another sound, which from time to time broke upon the almost unearthly stillness: this was the cry of an infant, coming from the neighbourhood of Michel's camp. The little one, of whom mention has already been made, had, it seemed, been, forgotten by all, or if once thought of, there was yet no effort made to save it from the doom which, to all appearance, now awaited it,--the Indians comforting themselves with the hope that the father would look after it, and the father supposing, not unnaturally, that all his children were together taken off by their indignant friends and relatives. And so the little one, who had been but a few hours previously nestling in her mother's arms, spent that cold night of early spring unsheltered and alone on the high bank of the river whither she had crawled in the early morning hours. One could fancy its plaintive cry increasing in vehemence as the hours wore on, and cold and exhaustion overcame her, with a sense of weariness and desolation unknown, unfelt, before. There must have been a sad feeling of wonder and perplexity at the unwonted silence which reigned around her, at the absence of all familiar sounds and voices. True, her father's dogs were there, faithful watchers through the night, who had helped to keep the family in food and fuel through the long winter months, hauling the sleighs, laden with moose or deer's meat; or with good-sized fir trees, morning by morning, for their camp fires. Strong, faithful creatures they were, patient and enduring, sharing all the hardships and privations of the Indian, with a fortitude and devotion to be met with nowhere else. It would have been hard enough to tell when those four watchers of the little one had had their last good meal; the scraps awarded to most dogs seldom could be spared for them,--the very bones, picked bare by the hungry masters, were grudged them, being carefully kept, and broken and melted down for grease (that most necessary ingredient in Northern diet.) Sometimes indeed their famished nature would assert itself, and they would steal something, it might be a rabbit caught in the snare near the camp (a most tempting bait for a hungry dog) or perchance a choice piece of dried fish hung high, yet not quite high enough to miss the spring of "Capri" or "Muskimo;" or a piece of soap lately purchased of the white man, or even a scrap of moose-skin reserved as shoe leather. All helped to assuage the pangs of hunger, yet these indulgences would be dearly purchased by the inevitable cuffs and blows which followed, till the poor brutes, scarred and bleeding, were fain to creep away and hide in some hole, until the imperative call or whistle made fresh claim for their services.