The next was the house of a fat Dutchman, who was just wondering how he should meet the compounded accumulated emergencies of late hay, early oats, weedy potatoes, lost cattle, and a prospective increase of his family, when two angels of relief appeared at his door, in copper-coloured skins. “Cahn yo work putty goood? “Yes, I have always lived on a farm,” and Rolf showed his hands, broad and heavy for his years. “Cahn yo mebby find my lost cows, which I haf not find, already yet?” Could they! it would be fun to try. “I giff yo two dollars you pring dem putty kvick.” So Quonab took the trail to the woods, and Rolf started into the potatoes with a hoe, but he was stopped by a sudden outcry of poultry. Alas! It was Skookum on an ill-judged partridge hunt. A minute later he was ignominiously chained to a penitential post, nor left it during the travellers' sojourn. In the afternoon Quonab returned with the cattle, and as he told Rolf he saw five deer, there was an unmistakable hunter gleam in his eye. Three cows in milk, and which had not been milked for two days, was a serious matter, needing immediate attention. Rolf had milked five cows twice a day for five years, and a glance showed old Van Trumper that the boy was an expert. “Good, good! I go now make feed swine.” He went into the outhouse, but a tow-topped, redcheeked girl ran after him. “Father, father, mother says--” and the rest was lost. “Myn Hemel! Myn Hemel! I thought it not so soon,” and the fat Dutchman followed the child. A moment later he reappeared, his jolly face clouded with a look of grave concern. “Hi yo big Injun, yo cahn paddle canoe?” Quonab nodded. “Den coom. Annette, pring Tomas und Hendrik.” So the father carried two-year-old Hendrik, while the Indian carried six-year-old Tomas, and twelve-year-old Annette followed in vague, uncomprehended alarm. Arrived at the shore the children were placed in the canoe, and then the difficulties came fully to the father's mind--he could not leave his wife. He must send the children with the messenger--In a sort of desperation, “Cahn you dem childen take to de house across de lake, and pring back Mrs. Callan? Tell her Marta Van Trumper need her right now mooch very kvick.” The Indian nodded. Then the father hesitated, but a glance at the Indian was enough. Something said, “He is safe,” and in spite of sundry wails from the little ones left with a dark stranger, he pushed off the canoe: “Yo take care for my babies,” and turned his brimming eyes away. The farmhouse was only two miles off, and the evening calm; no time was lost: what woman will not instantly drop all work and all interests, to come to the help of another in the trial time of motherhood?