ze the tail off a
brass bull by daylight."

Ans bashfully crept in beside the sleeping child, taking care not to
waken her, and lay there thinking of his new responsibility. At every
shiver of the cowering cabin and rising shriek of the wind, his heart
went out in love toward the helpless little creature whose dead mother
lay in the cold and deserted shanty, and whose father was wandering
perhaps breathless and despairing on the plain, or lying buried in the
snow in some deep ravine beside his patient oxen. He tucked the
clothing in carefully about the child, felt to see if her little feet
were cold, and covered her head with her shawl, patting her lightly
with his great paw.

"Say, Bert!"

"Well, Ans, what now?"

"If this little chap should wake up an' cry f'r its mother, what in
thunder would I do?"

"Give it up, ol' boy," was the reply from the depths of the
buffalo-robes before the fire. "Pat her on the back, an' tell her not
to cry, or somethin' like that."

"But she can't tell what I say."

"Oh, she'll understand if y' kind o' chuckle an' gurgle like a fam'ly
man." But the little one slept on, and when, about midnight, Bert got
up to feed the fire, he left the stove door open to give light, and
went softly over to the sleepers. Ans was sleeping with the little form
close to his breast, and the poor, troubled face safe under his shaggy
beard.

* * * * *

And all night long the blasting wind, sweeping the sea of icy sands,
hissed and howled round the little sod cabin like surf beating on a
half-sunken rock. The wind and the snow and the darkness possessed the
plain; and Cold (whose other name is Death) was king of the horrible
carnival. It seemed as though morning and sunlight could not come
again, so absolute was the sway of night and death.

CHAPTER III.

THE BURIAL OF HER DEAD MOTHER.

When Anson woke the next morning, he found the great flower-like eyes
of the little waif staring straight into his face with a surprise too
great for words or cries. She stared steadily and solemnly into his
open eyes for a while, and when he smiled she smiled back; but when he
lifted his large hand and tried to brush her hair she grew frightened,
pushing her little fists against him, and began to cry "Mor! Mor Kom!"

This roused Gearheart, who said:

"Well, Ans, what are y' goin' to do with that child? This is your
mornin' to git breakfast. Come, roll out. I've go