d to them she seemed like a mere child.
It was quite evident that they had taken her to their hearts, and that
nothing was too good for her.

Jean was surprised at herself for standing the journey so well.
Although very tired at times, she never once complained. She was not
accustomed to moccasins, and the roots and stones bruised her feet. Up
hill and down they moved, across valleys, swamps, and wild meadows.
There was no trail, but Sam led the way with an unerring instinct. He
chose the smoothest spots, but even these were hard for the girl's
tender feet. Very thankful was she when at length he halted by the
side of a little forest lake, and unstrapped his pack.

"Camp here," he announced. "Plenty water."

Jean dropped upon the ground, weary almost to the point of exhaustion.
Her body ached, and her head throbbed with a dull pain. But after she
had rested a while, and eaten the supper which Kitty speedily prepared,
she felt better. Sam erected a cosy lean-to, and when the rugs and
blankets had been spread out upon the fresh, fragrant spruce boughs, he
insisted that Jean should occupy the choice place near the fire. So
lying there, she watched her kind-hearted companions as they moved
about making ready for the night.

It was a beautiful spot where their camp was built. The little lake,
covered with a thin coating of ice, mirrored the great trees in its
glassy surface. It was one of Nature's gems tucked away in the heart
of the mighty forest, known only to the wandering Indians, and their
feathered and furry kindred of the wild.

As day faded, and night cast its mantle over forest and lake, the stars
appeared and twinkled down their welcome. As Jean watched them, she
thought of the night she had been stolen from home, and how cold and
cheerless those same stars had seemed. She also recalled the prayer
she had uttered in her distress, and the sense of peace which had come
upon her. In what a remarkable manner her prayer had been answered. A
feeling of intense gratitude welled up in her heart, and almost
unconsciously she began to sing an old familiar hymn.

The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want,
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.

Her voice was not strong, but exceptionally sweet. Her singing
attracted the Indians, who left their work, and squatting near her
side, listened with rapt attention. Jean, seeing their interest,
paused at the end