the little Tenas Klootchman is yours now?" I asked.

A sudden radiance suffused her face, all trace of melancholy
vanished. She fairly scintillated happiness.

"Mine!" she said. "All mine! Luke 'Alaska' and his wife said she
was more mine than theirs, that I must keep her as my own. My
husband rejoiced to see the cradle basket filled, and to hear me
laugh as I used to."

"How I should like to see the baby!" I began.

"You shall," she interrupted. Then with a proud, half-roguish
expression, she added:

"She is so strong, so well, so heavy; she sleeps a great deal, and
wakes laughing and hungry."

As night fell, an ancient Indian woman came up the companion-way.
In her arms she carried a beautifully-woven basket cradle, within
which nestled a round-cheeked, smiling-eyes baby. Across its little
forehead hung locks of black, straight hair, and its sturdy limbs
were vainly endeavoring to free themselves from the lacing of the
"blankets." Maarda took the basket, with an expression on her face
that was transfiguring.

"Yes, this is my little Tenas Klootchman," she said, as she unlaced
the bands, then lifted the plump little creature out on to her lap.

Soon afterwards the steamer touched an obscure little harbor, and
Maarda, who was to join her husband there, left me, with a happy
good-night. As she was going below, she faltered, and turned back
to me. "I think sometimes," she said, quietly, "the Great Spirit
thought my baby would feel motherless in the far Spirit Islands, so
He gave her the woman I nursed for a mother; and He knew I was
childless, and He gave me this child for my daughter. Do you think
I am right? Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said, "I think you are right, and I understand."

Once more she smiled radiantly, and turning, descended the
companionway. I caught a last glimpse of her on the wharf. She was
greeting her husband, her face a mirror of happiness. About the
delicately-woven basket cradle she had half pulled her heavy plaid
shawl, beneath which the two rows of black velvet ribbon bordering
her skirt proclaimed once more her nationality.

The Derelict

Cragstone had committed what his world called a crime--an
inexcusable offence that caused him to be shunned by society and
estranged from his father's house. He had proved a failure.

Not one of his whole family connections could say unto the others,
"I told you so," when he turned out badly.

They had all predicted that he was born