ir possession, having murdered her
husband and children, and were using her as a mere beast of burden, when
Sampson Gundry fell on them. He, with his followers, being enraged
at the cold-blooded death of Elijah, fell on those miscreants to such
purpose that women and children alone were left to hand down their bad
propensities.

But the white men rescued and brought away the stolen wife of the
stockman, and also the widow of the Black Rock chief. She was in such
poor condition and so broken-hearted that none but the finest humanity
would have considered her worth a quarter of the trouble of her
carriage. But she proved to be worth it a thousandfold; and Sawyer
Gundry (as now he was called) knew by this time all the value of
uncultivated gratitude. And her virtues were so many that it took a
long time to find them out, for she never put them forward, not knowing
whether they were good or bad.

Until I knew these people, and the pure depth of their kindness, it was
a continual grief to me to be a burden upon them. But when I came to
understand them and their simple greatness, the only thing I was ashamed
of was my own mistrust of them. Not that I expected ever that any harm
would be done to me, only that I knew myself to have no claim on any
one.

One day, when I was fit for nothing but to dwell on trouble, Sampson
Gundry's grandson "Firm"--as he was called for Ephraim--ran up the
stairs to the little room where I was sitting by myself.

"Miss Rema, will you come with us?" he said, in his deep, slow style of
speech. "We are going up the mountain, to haul down the great tree to
the mill."

"To be sure I will come," I answered, gladly. "What great tree is it,
Mr. Ephraim?"

"The largest tree any where near here--the one we cut down last winter.
Ten days it took to cut it down. If I could have saved it, it should
have stood. But grandfather did it to prove his rights. We shall have a
rare job to lead it home, and I doubt if we can tackle it. I thought you
might like to see us try."

In less than a minute I was ready, for the warmth and softness of the
air made cloak or shawl unbearable. But when I ran down to the yard
of the mill, Mr. Gundry, who was giving orders, came up and gave me an
order too.

"You must not go like this, my dear. We have three thousand feet to go
upward. The air will be sharp up there, and I doubt if we shall be home
by night-fall. Run, Suan, and fetch the young lady's cloak, and a pair
of