ined his freedom. Hinpoha fastened him in again and he stepped
decorously up on his perch and sat there in such a dignified attitude
that it was hard to believe him capable of breaking jail and entering a
lady's bedroom.

Aunt Phoebe spent the next day in bed, recovering from her fright. This
was the night of the Camp Fire meeting which Hinpoha had been given
permission to attend. She had been in such a fever of anticipation all
week that Aunt Phoebe was surprised when she came into her room after
supper and sat down with the History of the Presbyterian Church. "Well,
aren't you going to that precious meeting of yours?" she asked sharply.

"I think," said Hinpoha slowly, "that I had better stay at home with
you."

"I won't die without you," said Aunt Phoebe drily. "I can ring for Mary
if I want anything."

A mighty struggle was going on inside of Hinpoha. First she saw in her
mind's eye her beloved Winnebagos, having a meeting at Nyoda's house,
the place where she best loved to go to meetings, waiting to welcome her
back into their midst with open arms; and then she saw this cross old
woman, her aunt, sick and lonesome, left alone in the house with a maid
who despised her. With the cup of enjoyment raised to her lips she set
it down again. "I think I would _rather_ stay with you, Aunt Phoebe,"
she said simply. And in the Desert of Waiting there blossomed a fragrant
rose!

The deferred celebration for Hinpoha's return into the Winnebago fold
was held the following week. With the joy of the returned pilgrim she
took her place in the Council Circle, and once more joined in singing,
"Burn, Fire, Burn," and "Mystic Fire," and this time when Nyoda called
the roll and pronounced the name "Hinpoha," she was answered by a joyous
"Kolah" instead of the sorrowful silence which had followed that name
for so many weeks.

February froze, thawed, snowed and sleeted itself off the calendar, and
March set in like a roaring lion, with a worse snowstorm than even the
Snow Moon had produced. Venturesome treebuds, who loved the warm sun
like Aunt Phoebe loved her heating pad, and who had crept out of their
dark blankets one balmy day in February to be nearer the genial heat
giver, shivered until their sap froze in their veins, and a drab-colored
phoebe bird, who had nested under the eaves of the Bradford porch the
year before, coming back to his summer residence according to the date
marked on his calendar, huddled disconsolately bes