of the child. Maarda's arms were flung out, yearningly, longingly,
towards the baby.

"Where is your cradle basket to carry him in?" she asked, looking
about among the boxes and bales of merchandise the steamer had left
on the wharf.

"I have no cradle basket. I was too weak to make one, too poor to
buy one. I have _nothing_," said the woman.

"Then let me carry him," said Maarda. "It's quite a walk to my
place; he's too heavy for you."

The woman yielded the child gratefully, saying, "It's not a boy,
but a Tenas Klootchman."

Maarda could hardly believe her senses. That splendid, sturdy,
plump, big baby a Tenas Klootchman! For a moment her heart surged
with bitterness. Why had her own little girl been so frail, so
flower-like? But with the touch of that warm baby body, the
bitterness faded. She walked slowly, fitting her steps to those of
the sick woman, and jealously lengthening the time wherein she
could hold and hug the baby in her yearning arms.

The woman was almost exhausted when they reached Maarda's home, but
strong tea and hot, wholesome food revived her; but fever burned
brightly in her cheeks and eyes. The woman was very ill, extremely
ill. Maarda said, "You must go to bed, and as soon as you are
there, I will take the canoe and go for a doctor. It is two or
three miles, but you stay resting, and I'll bring him. We will put
the Tenas Klootchman beside you in--" she hesitated. Her glance
travelled up to the wall above, where a beautiful empty cradle
basket hung, with folded silken "blankets" and disused beaded
bands.

The woman's gaze followed hers, a light of beautiful understanding
pierced the fever glare of her eyes, she stretched out her hot hand
protestingly, and said, "Don't put her in--that. Keep that, it is
yours. She is used to being rolled only in my shawl."

But Maarda had already lifted the basket down, and was tenderly
arranging the wrappings. Suddenly her hands halted, she seemed to
see a wee flower face looking up to her like the blossom of a
russet-brown pansy. She turned abruptly, and, going to the door,
looked out speechlessly on the stretch of sea and sky glimmering
through the tree trunks.

For a time she stood. Then across the silence broke the little
murmuring sound of the baby half crooning, half crying, indoors,
the little cradleless baby that, homeless, had entered her home.
Maarda returned, and, lifting the basket, again arranged the
wrappings. "The Tenas Klootchman sh