“Huh,” grunted the chief, whose quick eye had caught sight of the boy farther down the bank, lying motionless at the root of an old birch stump. With one leap the chief was over the pony and at the boy’s side. Swiftly he lifted the boy, carried him down to the river’s edge and laid him gently down. Then reaching down he scooped up a double handful of water and dashed it into the still, white face. A gasping sob, a shudder of the limbs, and the eyes opened upon the chief’s face, then quietly closed again. “Huh, Kawin! Good!” grunted the chief, whose hands were swiftly moving over the boy’s legs and arms. “Good,” said the chief again, giving place to the boy’s father who had handed over the Indian child to its mother. “Hello, old boy!” said Gaspard. “All right?” “All r-i-i-ght,” said the boy with a deep sigh. “I’m a-w-f-u-l sle-epy.” Gaspard reached down to gather him up in his arms. “No!” said the chief, placing his hand on Gaspard’s arm. “No! Lie down—good. Better soon—five minutes.” And Gaspard, kneeling there, waited with white, anxious face. The chief spoke a few words to his daughter who was standing near with her child in her arms. She hurried away and came back in a few moments with a tin cup. The chief took it from her. “Good,” he said with a grunt. “Good. Drink.” Gaspard looked at the stuff doubtfully, then at the girl. “Yes, it is good. The Indians know it is good,” she said quietly. Gaspard took the cup and waited till Paul opened his eyes again. “Here, old chap, drink this,” he said, lifting the boy’s head. “My! Daddy, that’s awful _a_gusting stuff,” he said, screwing up his face. “Good,” said the chief with emphasis. “Drink. Make all better.” “Shall I, Daddy?” said the boy. “The chief says so, Paul, and he knows.” The boy’s eyes went round the circle of faces till they came to the Indian girl’s, then rested there. She smiled at him, and took the cup from his father’s hand. “Drink it,” she said in a quiet voice. “My little boy drinks it. It will do you good.” He drank it up at once. “Where’s Joseph?” he asked suddenly when he had lain some minutes quietly. “He went over too, didn’t he?” Joseph was the name of his pinto pony, so called in Scriptural reminiscence of the earliest recorded Joseph, with his coat of many colours. “He’s perfectly all right—clumsy little beggar,” said his father. “And the baby?” said Paul, sitting bolt upright and wide awake. “He is here and safe,” replied the mother. “Your father saved him,” she added in a voice that somehow carried a thrilling tone. “Did you, Daddy? That was fine.” “Pshaw! I just jerked the baby free from Joseph’s feet,” answered his father almost gruffly. “Good man! Smart man!” said the chief. “Jump like deer!” “I guess the angels were smarter’n you, Daddy,” observed the boy dreamily. “Angels? What do you——? Oh, I see,” laughed the father.