On the day of the child's death she had been obliged to leave her work, to go out at some little distance to cut wood. She did not, as usual, take her child with her: it was asleep in its carved board cradle, and she left it in charge of a girl, the child of one of her friends. Fiery Man's sister had gone out, telling White Moon she should be away all day. So great was her dread of this proud woman--so fearful was she that she would revenge on her child the hatred she felt towards herself--that otherwise she would not have left the infant at home. The anticipations of White Moon at her first interview with her husband's sister were all realized. This woman possessed all the bad qualities of Fiery Man, without any of his redeeming ones. She had been married, and was a widow. Both of her children were dead: there was no avenue by which kindness could find its way to her heart. She disliked White Moon, because she had so won her brother's love. But there needed to assign no reason, for she disliked all who were better off than she. It is not only in civilized life that the dread passion of envy has full sway: the human heart, the same by nature, varies only by association and circumstance. Had it not been for the unhappy disposition of Fiery Man's sister, White Moon had been happy. She could not but be proud of her husband, and of his affection for her: it was not in the nature of a Sioux woman to see unmoved the many trophies of his skill and bravery. But the curse of envy was about her; and when White Moon smiled over her boy, and Fiery Man exulted in the pride and affection of a Sioux father for his son, his sister could not rejoice with them--she envied and hated them. Fiery Man exacted the most implicit obedience from his wife, and from all around him. He would not have brooked the slightest contradiction from her; but she did not attempt it. In most cases an Indian wife is little more than a serving-woman to her husband. To this White Moon was accustomed from observation, and from her short experience. She trembled at her husband's voice, though against her it had never been raised in anger. But the violent passions, the abusive language, the frequent blows--these, coming from one who ought to have no power over her, made her often wish for death. Yet so great was the likeness of brother and sister, that she bowed to the tyranny of the one, from having done so to the other. Her spirit, too, was broken. She could easily submit, but not forget. When she left her child in the wigwam it was quietly sleeping; when she returned it still slept. She had been a long time away, and yet the rest of the infant appeared to have been unbroken. She missed the girl who had promised to remain with the child. She had brought a heavy burden of wood to her lodge, and she sat down by the child to rest, and to watch its awakening.