Michel took unto him a wife after some years) to Fort Simpson with his furs to trade, rather than trust himself in the neighbourhood of the "Tene Manula" (white man). Once, it was said, that Michel had even so far overcome his repugnance as to pitch his camp in the neighbourhood of Fort Simpson. He was a husband and a father then, and there were a number of Indians encamped in the same locality. It might be hoped that under these circumstances the past would be forgotten, and that the man would bury his resentment, and extend a friendly hand to those, not a few, among the white men who wished him well; but jealousy is the "rage of a man." In the middle of the night Michel roused his wife and little ones, declaring that the white man was coming to do them some mischief. Bearing his canoe upon his head he soon launched it off, and in his mad haste to be away he even left a number of his chattels behind. Only once more did Michel appear at the Fort, and that on a memorable occasion which neither he nor any who then beheld him will be likely to forget. It was on a dark, cold night in the winter of 1880, that a dog-sleigh, laden with furs for the Company, appeared at Fort Simpson, and having discharged his load at the fur store, the sleigh-driver, who was none other than Accomba, the wife of Indian Michel, proceeded to the small "Indian house," as it is called, to spend the rest of the night among her own people. She was a pleasing-looking young woman, with bright expressive eyes, and a rather melancholy cast of countenance. She was completely enveloped in a large green blanket, from the folds of which peeped over her shoulder an infant of a few months old, warm and comfortable in its moss-bag. A blessed institution is that of the moss-bag to the Indian infant; and scarcely less so to the mother herself. Yet, indeed, it requires no small amount of patience, skill, and labour before this Northern luxury can be made ready for its tiny occupant. Through a good part of the long winter nights has the mother worked at the fine bead-work which must adorn the whole front of the moss-bag. By a strange intuitive skill she has traced the flowers and leaves and delicate little tendrils, the whole presenting a marvellously artistic appearance, both in form and in well-combined colours. Then must the moss be fetched to completely line the bag, and to form both bed and wrapping for the little one. For miles into the woods will the Indian women hike to pick the soft moss which is only to be met with in certain localities. They will hang it out on bush and shrub to dry for weeks before it is wanted, and then trudge back again to bring it home, in cloths or blankets swung on their often already-burdened shoulders. Then comes the picking and cleaning process, and thawing the now frozen moss before their camp fires. Every leaf and twig must be removed, that nothing may hurt the little baby limbs. And now all