l little girls, she was very "ticklish," and when he dallied with
his fingers about her plump neck, she dropped to the ground and kicked
and rolled over to get away from him. He let her up, and said with
pretended gravity that he never allowed any trifling with him without
punishing the person therefore.

Linna did not seem to notice the absence of her father, and asked no
questions. Ben told his mother how he went off after she fell asleep,
and the good woman saddened, for she was sure she understood it all.

The first thing done, after a few minutes' talk, was to kneel in prayer,
Mrs. Ripley leading in a petition to Heaven that all might be preserved
from harm and reach the distant settlement safely. She did not forget
the absent Omas, or the hundreds of hapless people whom they had left
behind, who were still in great danger.

It was Mrs. Ripley's custom always to offer prayer in the little
household at the beginning of each day. Linna, who had gained a dim idea
of what the touching act meant, bent on her knees beside Alice; and who
shall say the petition which went up from her heart was not heard and
remembered by Him who notices the fall of every sparrow.

And now came the serious business of the day. Many long miles of
trackless forest lay before them and the delay caused all to feel the
need of hurry.

Mrs. Ripley gave to each a moderate portion of the food brought with
them, carefully preserving what was left, for they were sure to need
that and much more before reaching the end of their journey. The day
promised to be sultry like the preceding one, and each sadly missed the
water with which to quench their thirst and splash upon their faces and
hands.

"We shall come across some before long," said Ben hopefully when he and
his mother had divided the luggage between them and set out toward
the rising sun; "we are a great deal better off than the poor folks of
Wyoming."

The mother pinched the clothing of Linna, and found it dried of the
moisture gained by her swim in the Susquehanna.

It is a curious practice among not only the Indians, but with many white
people, not to change wet stockings or garments for dry ones. I knew
a fisherman's boy whose father once punished him for removing his
saturated stockings and shoes for others.

"Always let 'em dry on you, and you won't catch cold," was his doctrine.
"Keep moving if you can, but don't change 'em."

I don't believe in the practice; but be that as it