immy. But that's all.
That's the very last one."

"Now, Mrs. Mitchell, be reasonable. Let me have the baby girl, too."

"No."

"Look at your tent. We'll put the little girl in a fine house with a
roof on it, and a door that opens and shuts."

"No."

"We'll give her pretty clothes, and teach her from the picture books.
She'll come back so you won't know her."

"But I want to know her."

"We'll feed her well, and fill her up till she's as fat as a seal."

"No. That's all. Jimmy and Billy can go. She shall stay here with me."

This time the father kept his face tight closed. There was no help at
all from him. He looked the other way, stiff as a seal-gaff.

The mate was already on his way to the beach, with the two naked
little boys wriggling under his arms. They were red and blue all over
with the stains of the berries--a beautiful sight.

"All right, Mrs. Mitchell. We must go on board now. Come with us, and
we'll give you the things."

Then there was joy for that poor, hungry family.

They were all clad in stout clothing that would keep out the wind. A
gun was lent to the father, and his shattered fowling-piece was fixed
up by the clever engineer, till it was "most as good as new." The
eldest boy, John, would be big enough to use it.

The powder and shot were dug out of the lockers: tins of condensed
milk were found for the poor little shrimp of a baby. The second
axe--a gorgeous prize--went into the growing pile of gifts: soap,
needles and thread, shoes and stockings, potatoes, some flour, a
package of tea, sugar, and other precious things went into two oilskin
bags, and then over the rail into the Mitchells' leaky, tossing boat.

Meanwhile an astonishing change was taking place in the two boys. They
were getting a bath on the deck, in the wind and snow, with a bucket
and a scrubbing-brush, and after they were dressed they had their hair
cut. Their mother stared and stared as the boat rowed away. She could
hardly believe they were hers.

"Good-by, Doctor. Thank you."

"Good-by, Mrs. Mitchell. We'll take good care of them."

Father said nothing. He was rowing the boat. But no doubt he was
thinking very grateful thoughts.

The boys wept a little, silently as they looked their last on their
patched and tattered home. The family they left behind them would make
a journey of a hundred miles in that rotten boat to a winter hut on
the mainland.

But they looked at each other, washed and dressed, with a