his long-bladed hunting knife
from its sheath, he began to search the forest. Henry Ware had been long a
captive among the Northwestern Indians, and he had learned their lore. He
had gained from the medicine men and old squaws a knowledge of herbs, and
now he was to put it to use. He sought first for the bitter root called
Indian turnip, and after looking more than twenty minutes found it. He dug
it up with his sharp knife, and then, with another search of a quarter of
an hour, he found the leaves of wild sage, already dried in the autumn
air. A third quarter of an hour and he added to his collection two more
herbs, only the Indian names of which were known to him. Then he returned
to the house, to find that the icy torrent in Paul's blood had now become
hot.

"I can't stand this, Henry," he said. "We've got the door and window
closed and a big fire burning, and I'm just roasting hot."

"Only a little while longer," said Henry. "The truth is, Paul, you've had
a big chill, and now the fever's come on you. But I'm Dr. Ware, and I'm
going to cure you. When I was up there among the Indians, I learned their
herb remedies, and mighty good some of 'em are, too. They're particularly
strong with chills and fever, and I'm going to make you a tea that'll just
lay hold of you and drive all the fever out of your veins. What you want
to do, Paul, is to sweat, and to sweat gallons."

He spoke in rapid, cheerful tones, wishing to keep up Paul's spirits, in
which effort he succeeded, as Paul's eyes sparkled, and a gleam of humor
lighted up his face.

"Well, Dr. Ware," he said, "I'm mighty glad to know what's the matter with
me. Somehow you always feel better when you know, and I'll trust to your
tea."

He meant what he said. He knew Henry too well to doubt him. Any assertion
of his inspired him with supreme confidence.

"Now, Paul," Henry resumed, "you keep house again, and I'll find where our
unknown friend got his drinking water."

He took the iron pot that he had noticed and went forth into the forest.
It was an instinctive matter with one bred in the wilderness like Henry
Ware to go straight to the spring. The slope of the land led him, and he
found it under the lee of a little hill, near the base of a great oak.
Here a stream, six inches broad, an inch deep, but as clear as burnished
silver, flowed from beneath a stony outcrop in the soil, and then trickled
away, in a baby stream, down a little ravine. There was a strain of