“Paul,” she whispered, raising her arms toward him, while into her eyes came a look of shy, adoring love. “You are a good man. God will always go with you and them.” She drew him down and kissed him. “Yes, Mammy, I know,” said Paul, kissing her in return. In a few moments, exhausted but with a great peace in her heart, the mother fell asleep, her children beside her and Paul watching by the fire. An hour later the missionary came in, his wife following. “She is asleep,” said Paul. The missionary leaned over her. “Yes, she will rest quiet now,” he said, gathering up the little girl in his arms. “Take the children with you, Mother,” he added, giving the sleeping Tanna to his wife. “You go too, Paul, I will watch now.” They laid the Indian woman under a clump of spruce trees near to the lake shore, the little crucifix on her breast, and on her face, made beautiful with the beauty of youth, a great peace. Before a month had passed a tall eagle-faced Chippewayan warrior, splendid in his chief’s dress and decked in the colors for the dead, and with him six tall Chippewayan braves, came stalking into the Post. Gravely he greeted Paul. “Wah-na-ta-hi-ta comes for his dead,” he announced. “She lies under the spruce trees there,” said Paul. “She gave me much love for you. She was at peace when she went away.” And then, bringing him in to the hut, he told him the story of his daughter’s passing. The old chief listened with face unmoved. “I would see this man who gave her peace,” he said gravely. To the missionary the old chief brought rich gifts in furs and curiously wrought garments, refusing all gifts in return. It was not seemly that his dead should be in debt for any service done. Then the missionary, reading the grief and haughty pride in the piercing dark eyes, told him of his daughter’s last days, of her peace, her hope, and her willingness to go. And as he told the story the stern lines in the bronze face grew soft, the piercing eyes grew kind. “Good man!” he said in English, offering his hand. “Good heart!” touching the missionary on the breast. “The Great Spirit will remember.” And in token of his gratitude he and his six men deigned to break bread at the missionary’s table and to accept gifts at the missionary’s hands. After two days he made ready to go. Peter and Singing Water he was for taking with him. “She gave them to me,” he said in his own speech, which Paul knew as well as he. “The little one will be in my heart and keep it warm. The boy will be my son. He will be chief of my people when my camp fire is cold.” “No!” said Paul gently, but looking straight into the fierce old eyes. “They are my father’s children, my brother and my sister. Their mother put their hands in mine. They will tell you.” Peter and Tanna were called. “She gave me to him. I put my hands in his. I kissed the Holy Cross. He is my chief,” said Peter simply. “And you, Singing Water?” inquired the chief, his voice soft and tender.