“Yes, Helen, und I haf prayet dot I vould fint mein child. I vill go out und look in efery blace till I see if she is here. Go you to de tent und stay dere till I come again. You are not safe here.” Bennie came back sad and crestfallen. What to him were all the lots in the world without Dora, and even his optimistic soul was down in the depths of despair. But all he said was: “I will go with you to look for her. I think I saw the two men that we seek among the boomers, but am not sure; but, in any case, it is better than sitting still.” “Yes, Bennie, ve must fint her or I shall lose my reason.” So Helen and the child started back to the tent and went inside, and there they were measurably safe, as they were surrounded by boomers who were busy setting their tents in order. “Oh, mother,” said Loney, “how glad I am that we have found each other! Now, when it comes night, I can say my prayers at your knees instead of all alone.” “Yes, and you must always pray for the good man who took you into his home when you were an outcast, through your own father’s wickedness. It was he who showed me that it was never too late to mend. And I do not intend to ever try to teach you to revere the memory of such a father as yours is. He is unworthy of such a child, even unworthy of me.” “Mother, they call you the Angel here. Why? Oh, I know; it is because you are so kind to everyone. Teach me, so that I may be like you.” Scarcely had Helen and Loney gone from the box when Muriel and Dora came to the very spot. Muriel was pale and worn out, and her once handsome garments were almost in rags from the long marches and the exposure to which she had been subjected. Dora was dressed in a pretty and complete Indian maiden’s costume which Muriel had bought from Red Eagle, whose love for firewater had caused him to barter away what his squaw had kept sacred ever since her daughter had died in her youth. So, unless he happened to see her face, John would scarcely have recognized Dora. She had a shawl drawn up over her head, so as to conceal her identity still better. Muriel said, hurriedly: “Go, go! and get lost in the crowd! I cannot protect you longer!” She did not tell Dora that she knew herself to be dying from pneumonia, for she knew the child then would not leave her, so she held Dora close to her heart for a moment, and then sent her away. “I thank you with all my heart for all your goodness to me, and I will pray that Heaven may repay you for all you have endured for me!” “Go, go! I fancy I see them following us in the crowd back there. And it will cost our lives if they find us again! Go, Dora!” “Good-bye, dear Muriel. God bless and keep you safe!” And Dora mingled with the crowd, none of whom took more than casual notice of the squaw, for squaws were common about there. Shoshone came by the box, hoping to find the shoemaker. Helen was with him, but the boy was not. “And,” he said, continuing a conversation they had had: