The boy was terribly shaken with the struggle going on in his soul. He knew the book well. He took and turned it over in his hands, opened it at the fly-leaf, read in faded lettering the words written, he well remembered when, “For my son Paul, from his mother. ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’” The scene flooded his memory—the Pine Croft living room, his mother’s face with its wondering, tremulous smile as he told her how up through the tops of the pines, between the little white clouds he could see God looking down at him. He remembered how, as she was tucking him in that night, she brought him a new Bible, with his name in it and her name and the beautiful words about seeing God, and how she kissed the book and kissed him as she gave it into his hands. Like a mountain torrent sweeping away a dam, the surging tide of his emotion swept away his control. He dropped on his knees by the bed, pressed the words to his lips, sobbing. “Oh, Mother, Mother! dear, dear Mother! For your sake! Yes, yes! for your sake!” The men turned away and moved softly from the hut, leaving the two alone. The Indian woman lay back, spent and done. She had fulfilled her trust. She had brought back to his people, clean from lust and from blood, the son of the man who was to her as God Himself. Next day the sergeant went north on his quest, carrying a message to the Athabascan chief from his daughter. The passing of Onawata was all peace. An hour with the missionary, even though he was not of her faith, brought her something of the peace that passeth understanding. There was still her anxiety for the future of her children, which she had settled in her own way. There only remained the telling of it to them, and that she deferred till the very last. They were together in the little hut after a day of quiet rest and freedom from pain. “Here, Tanna,” she called in her soft Chippewayan tongue. “Come hither, little Singing Water, light of my eyes. Come in beside me.” She gathered the child in her arms and held her close. “Peter, come too.” The boy came and knelt by her bed, his dark face set as if cast in bronze. He well knew what was before them all. His mother’s arm went round his shoulders. “Little ones, your mother is going away,” she began, her voice coming softly and evenly, like the flowing of quietly running water, “away to a good country—ah! a good country!—where the warm sun is always shining, no frost, no snow, no hunger, no pain, no sickness, no fear, no fighting, no blood. Oh, it is a good country.” She lay quiet a few moments, her dark face growing young and beautiful. The little girl’s fingers crept over her face. “Oh, Mammy, you are smiling. When will we go? I do not love the cold and the hunger, and I want no more pain for you, Mammy dear.” The little one spoke in her father’s tongue. Her mother had seen to that. “And, Mammy, there will be no more dark. I know! I know!”