Lucy left her father's house one of these dry mornings, and stood for a few moments in the grounds, inclosed by the palisade, gazing at the dark forest, outlined so sharply against the blue of the sky. She could see the green of the forest beyond the fort, and she knew that in the open spaces, where the sun reached them, tiny wild flowers of pink and purple, nestled low in the grass, were already in bloom. From the west a wind sweet and soft was blowing, and, as she inhaled it, she wanted to live, and she wanted all those about her to live. She wondered, if there was not some way in which she could help. The stout, double log cabins, rude, but full of comfort, stood in rows, with well-trodden streets, between, then a fringe of grass around all, and beyond that rose the palisade of stout stakes, driven deep into the ground, and against each other. All was of the West and so was Lucy, a tall, lithe young girl, her face tanned a healthy and becoming brown by the sun, her clothing of home-woven red cloth, adorned at the wrists and around the bottom of the skirt with many tiny beads of red and yellow and blue and green, which, when she moved, flashed in the brilliant light, like the quivering colors of a prism. She had thrust in her hair a tiny plume of the scarlet tanager, and it lay there, like a flash of flame, against the dark brown of her soft curls. Where she stood she could see the water of the spring near the edge of the forest sparkling in the sunlight, as if it wished to tantalize her, but as she looked a thought came to her, and she acted upon it at once. She went to the little square, where her father, John Ware, Ross and others were in conference. "Father," she exclaimed, "I will show you how to get the water!" Mr. Upton and the other men looked at her in so much astonishment that none of them replied, and Lucy used the opportunity. "I know the way," she continued eagerly. "Open the gate, let the women take the buckets--I will lead--and we can go to the spring and fill them with water. Maybe the Indians won't fire on us!" "Lucy, child!" exclaimed her father. "I cannot think of such a thing." Then up spoke Tom Ross, wise in the ways of the wilderness. "Mr. Upton," he said, "the girl is right. If the women are willing to go out it must be done. It looks like an awful thing, but--if they die we are here to avenge them and die with them, if they don't die we are all saved because we can hold this fort, if we have water; without it every soul here from the oldest man down to the littlest baby will be lost." Mr. Upton covered his face with his hands. "I do not like to think of it, Tom," he said. The other men waited in silence. Lucy looked appealingly at her father, but he turned his eyes away. "See what the women say about it, Tom," he said at last.