all have this cradle," she said,
gently. The sick woman turned her face to the wall and sobbed.

It was growing dark when Maarda left her guests, and entered her
canoe on the quest for a doctor. The clouds hung low, and a fine,
slanting rain fell, from which she protected herself as best she
could with a shawl about her shoulders, crossed in front, with each
end tucked into her belt beneath her arms--Indian-fashion. Around
rocks and boulders, headlands and crags, she paddled, her little
craft riding the waves like a cork, but pitching and plunging with
every stroke. By and by the wind veered, and blew head on, and now
and again she shipped water; her skirts began dragging heavily
about her wet ankles, and her moccasins were drenched. The wind
increased, and she discarded her shawl to afford greater freedom to
her arm-play. The rain drove and slanted across her shoulders and
head, and her thick hair was dripping with sea moisture and the
downpour.

Sometimes she thought of beaching the canoe and seeking shelter
until daylight. Then she again saw those fever-haunted eyes of the
stranger who was within her gates, again heard the half wail of the
Tenas Klootchman in her own baby's cradle basket, and at the sound
she turned her back on the possible safety of shelter, and forged
ahead.

It was a wearied woman who finally knocked at the doctor's door and
bade him hasten. But his strong man's arm found the return journey
comparatively easy paddling. The wind helped him, and Maarda also
plied her bow paddle, frequently urging him to hasten.

It was dawn when they entered her home. The sick woman moaned, and
the child fretted for food. The doctor bent above his patient,
shaking his head ruefully as Maarda built the fire, and attended to
the child's needs before she gave thought to changing her drenched
garments. All day she attended her charges, cooked, toiled,
watched, forgetting her night of storm and sleeplessness in the
greater anxieties of ministering to others. The doctor came and
went between her home and the village, but always with that solemn
headshake, that spoke so much more forcibly than words.

"She shall not die!" declared Maarda. "The Tenas Klootchman needs
her, she shall not die!" But the woman grew feebler daily, her eyes
grew brighter, her cheeks burned with deeper scarlet.

"We must fight for it now," said the doctor. And Maarda and he
fought the dread enemy hour after hour, day after day.

Bereft of