“Next spring that Indian come out of lodge with big pack furs. He go to post to sell. Trader give him glass of cider. Bien, Indian ask for more. That trader put long straw in another barrel. ‘Come, Chief, it is whole barrel of cider.’ But that cider—you unders’and. It is wassamowin, the lightning. “Two more years. Voyageur come back to Keego, look round in lodge. No mat, no chest, no moccasins. Nothing to eat. No gun. Chief drunk on ground. Woman tough—dress all open—baby drinking—milk no good. Bien, that baby my grandfather. “Is it strange my father Ojeeg is caught in a trap? Is it strange he is sick? But I cannot cure him. I am not big medicine. The Sioux are the weaklings, but they have the big medicine. They have the winner, Dr. Ohiyesa Eastman. Once we lick ’em bad, the Bwan, now they lick us.” The Little Pine folded his arms, and Jean spoke. “My brother, I don’t believe that even Dr. Eastman could cure your father. Some day you will find him frozen, and you may as well get ready to face it.” “My sister, I will not let my father die. I will sell my gun. I will go on the fire-jemaun to Chicago. I will be a doctor.” “You can’t do it. Let me think.” The lad stood waiting to hear. “Little Pine, I have been cruel to my father. This morning I had a chance to make him comfortable for the rest of his life, and I refused it. But I will refuse no longer. I will help you both.” The Little Pine smiled. “Does the Humming-Bird pick money out of flowers?” “No, but I will sell my island. I will sell Shingebiss.” “Not for me, my sister.” She looked at the set line of his thin lips and saw it was no use. She listened for the rain and found it was no longer audible on the roof of the lodge. So presently she sprang up and started homeward. The Little Pine extinguished the light and followed in the intense darkness. Not a word was spoken till they came to the river. “Naynokahsee, who buy your duck?” “Captain Mahan is willing to buy it.” “A bear, he not eat ducks.” “Perhaps he will sell it to a fox.” The boy pondered in the black silence. “I not unders’and. Yesterday I think that bear he come to help the Crane. Now all is dark—like this.” “Yes, it’s pretty dark. But the world will be just as beautiful in the morning. After they have put the sand over the last of your family and my family, the sun will rise just as beautifully as it ever did.” Shinguakonse was not unacquainted with this curious form of comfort. His dear teacher had dealt it out to him before, but it took him a long time to see any sense in it. He felt along the shore until he found her dory, and launched it and held it while she stepped in. “Tell me how he come up, the sun.”