the willow thicket for arrow shafts, and prowled among little
flints and pointed stones on the shores of our stream, seeking arrow
points. It finally appeared to me that we might rest here for a time and
be fairly safe to make a living in some way. Then, as I was obliged to
admit, we would need to hurry on to the southward.

But again fate had its way with us, setting aside all plans. When I
returned to our encampment, instead of seeing Ellen come out to meet me
as I expected, I found her lying in the shade of the little tepee.

"You are hurt!" I cried. "What has happened?"

"My foot," said she, "I think it is broken!" She was unable to stand.

As she could, catching her breath, she told me how this accident had
happened. Walking along the stony creek bank, she had slipped, and her
moccasined foot, caught in the narrow crack between two rocks, had been
held fast as she fell forward. It pained her now almost unbearably.
Tears stood in her eyes.

So now it was my term to be surgeon. Tenderly as I might, I examined the
foot, now badly swollen and rapidly becoming discolored. In spite of her
protest--although I know it hurt me more than herself--I flexed the
joints and found the ankle at least safe. Alas! a little grating in the
smaller bones, just below the instep, told me of a fracture.

"Ellen," said I to her, "the foot is broken here--two bones, I think,
are gone."

She sank back upon her robe with an exclamation as much of horror as
pain.

"What shall we do!" she murmured. "I shall be crippled! I cannot
walk--we shall perish!"

"No," I said to her, "we shall mend it. In time you will not know it has
happened." Thus we gave courage to each other.

All that morning I poured water from a little height upon the bared
foot, so that presently the inflammation and the pain lessened. Then I
set out to secure flat splints and some soft bark, and so presently
splintered and bound the foot, skillfully as I knew how; and this must
have brought the broken bones in good juxtaposition, for at least I know
that eventually nature was kind enough to heal this hurt and leave no
trace of it.

Now, when she was thus helpless and suffering, needing all her strength,
how could I find it in my heart to tell her that secret which it was my
duty to tell? How could I inflict upon her a still more poignant
suffering than this physical one? Each morning I said to myself,
"To-day, if she is better, I will tell her of Grace Sheraton; s