quietly through the brush, saving her strength, as she had need, with her ear alert for a sound of her little lad. In a few minutes she heard his joyous shout. He had caught sight of her through an opening in the bush, and came tearing through toward her. “Mother! Mother,” he shouted, “the baby is choking, Mother! dying! Come! oh, come quick! Mother.” “What are you talking about, Paul? Don’t shout, speak quietly.” She held him firmly, speaking calmly. “What baby, and where is it?” “Oh, Mother, it’s——” “Stop, Paul! Now, quietly——” The boy took hold of himself and began in a quiet voice. “Yes, Mother. The baby is up in the woods by the big root. It is an Indian baby, and it is choking.” “Show me the way.” With all the speed she could make she followed the boy, and in a few minutes came upon a pathetic little group, a young Indian woman, exquisitely beautiful in face and form, a mere girl she seemed, kneeling before a child of four, lying on a blanket, with face deeply cyanosed and distorted, looking like death. “What is the matter?” she cried, kneeling beside the girl. “Has the child swallowed anything?” “No, no,” said the mother, speaking perfect English in the soft, low musical Indian voice. “It is croup, I think. He has had a bad cold, he has been bad all night. He will die.” Her words came with the passionless calm of despair. “No, he must not die,” said Mrs. Gaspard. “Paul, now listen carefully. I depend on you.” “Yes, Mother,” said her son, standing looking at her, quiet, alert, tense. “Run to Jinny, tell her to fill the bath half full with hot water.” Like a bird in flight he was off through the woods. “Come! Bring your baby!” she said to the Indian girl. Swiftly, without a word, the mother caught up the child and followed Mrs. Gaspard to the house. For an hour they fought with death, and won. Exhausted by the struggle, Mrs. Gaspard retired to her own room to rest. Paul she sent off on his pony for a scamper. Beside her child, now quietly sleeping, the Indian woman sat, staring out of the window, motionless, passionless, as if she were a carved image, heedless to all about her. Thus the morning hours passed, till at the approach of noon the voices of Paul and his father were heard from the paddock near the house. At the first sound of the man’s voice the Indian girl leaped to the window, flung one swift glance at the man’s face, stood one moment, trembling, uncertain, then with quick resolve gathered up her sleeping boy in his blanket and with the fleet and silent movements of the wild things of the forest she slipped from the room out of the house and disappeared into the brushwood at the rear. Full of excited chatter, Paul conducted his father into the house, and, subduing his voice, led him into the kitchen where he had left the Indian woman and her child. “Where is she?” he exclaimed. He ran out into the summer kitchen where Jinny was at work over the wash tub. “Where are they gone—the Indian woman?”