Within an hour the neighbour's wife was holding hands with the mother of the banished tow-heads. He who tempers the wind and appoints the season of the wild deer hinds had not forgotten the womanhood beyond the reach of skilful human help, and with the hard and lonesome life had conjoined a sweet and blessed compensation. What would not her sister of the city give for such immunity; and long before that dark, dread hour of night that brings the ebbing life force low, the wonderful miracle was complete; there was another tow-top in the settler's home, and all was well. Chapter 16. Life with the Dutch Settler The Indians slept in the luxuriant barn of logs, with blankets, plenty of hay, and a roof. They were more than content, for now, on the edge of the wilderness, they were very close to wild life. Not a day or a night passed without bringing proof of that. One end of the barn was portioned off for poultry. In this the working staff of a dozen hens were doing their duty, which, on that first night of the “brown angels' visit,” consisted of silent slumber, when all at once the hens and the new hands were aroused by a clamorous cackling, which speedily stopped. It sounded like a hen falling in a bad dream, then regaining her perch to go to sleep again. But next morning the body of one of these highly esteemed branches of the egg-plant was found in the corner, partly devoured. Quonab examined the headless hen, the dust around, and uttered the word, “Mink.” Rolf said, “Why not skunk?” “Skunk could not climb to the perch.” “Weasel then.” “Weasel would only suck the blood, and would kill three or four.” “Coon would carry him away, so would fox or wildcat, and a marten would not come into the building by night.” There was no question, first, that it was a mink, and, second, that he was hiding about the barn until the hunger pang should send him again to the hen house. Quonab covered the hen's body with two or three large stones so that there was only one approach. In the way of this approach he buried a “number one” trap. That night they were aroused again; this time by a frightful screeching, and a sympathetic, inquiring cackle from the fowls.