The men drew to shore, and hauled up the canoe, while La V., whose curiosity was much excited, sprang out and proceeded to climb the bank. On the summit of the bank close to the edge lay four dogs; or rather they had lain there, but they all started up, and looked defiance, as soon as steps were heard approaching their charge. Close within the circle they had formed around her, lay a little bundle of rags, wrapping the now nearly lifeless form of a thirteen months old child. Apparently, the moans which had met the ears of the men in the canoe were her last, for on lifting her up in his arms, La V. could detect no signs of life. For how many hours had she lain there, without food or warmth, excepting that afforded by the dogs, who lay closely round her? But there was no time to speculate. Without a moment's delay the men cut down three or four young fir trees, and proceeded to make a fire; and La V., folding the little one in his "capot"--sat down and tried to bring back life and warmth into her. In a short, time, a kettle was boiling on the fire; tea was made, and, with womanly tenderness, a few drops were administered. After a little time the men had the comfort of seeing a favourable result of their efforts. A little natural warmth returned to the poor body, some action at the heart was perceptible, and the dark eyes opened and sought--the Mother! That evening the three men and their small burden reached Fort Simpson, where the news of Michel's crime and the dispersion of the Indians was already known. There was no doubt now as to whose the rescued child might be, and it was touching to see how one and another of the Indian mothers came forward and offered to adopt it as her own. Yet it is no light charge for an Indian to undertake to rear a child not her own, at so tender an age; and it is especially hard in a country where milk is not to be procured, and where fish or rabbit soup is the only substitute for an infant's natural food. Minneha tried it, however, for a few weeks. She was cousin to poor Accomba, and spent whole nights in wailing and lamenting, saying, "My sister! my sister! why might I not die instead of you? Oh, my sister, who shall mother your little ones? Who shall work for them? Who shall hunt for them, and bring them the young sayoni skin (sheep skin) from the mountains? Who shall bring them meat when they are hungry--the fine fat ribs, the moose nose, or beaver tail, and the fine bladders of grease, which we cook with the flour from the white man's country? You were proud of your 'tezone' my sister. She had your eyes, dark as the berries of the sassiketoum, and they flashed fire like the aurora of winter nights. Your laugh was pleasant. Oh, my sister! like the waters dancing over the stones, it fell: it was good to listen to your words when we were partners in the days of our childhood. Our mothers dwelt together; they loved each other with sisters' love; they dwelt together among their own people. Etcha-Ottine were they,