primitive poetry, the love of the wild, in Henry's nature, and he paused
to admire.

He saw that human hands had scraped out at the source a little fountain,
where one might dip up pails of water, and looking down into the clear
depths he beheld his own face reflected back in every detail. It seemed to
Henry Ware, who knew and loved only the wilderness, that the cabin, with
its spring and game at its very doors, would have made a wonderfully snug
home in the forest. Had it been his own, he certainly would have
undertaken to defend it against any foe who might come.

But all these thoughts passed in a second, treading upon one another's
heels. Henry was at the fountain scarcely a moment before he had filled
the pot and was on the way back to the cabin. Then he cast in the herbs,
put it upon a bed of red coals, and soon a steam arose. He found an old,
broken-sided gourd among the abandoned utensils, and was able to dip up
with it a half dozen drinks of the powerful decoction. He induced his
comrade to swallow these one after another, although they were very
bitter, and Paul made a wry face. Then he drew from the corner the rude
bedstead of the departed settler, and made Paul lie upon it beside the
fire.

"Now go to sleep," he said, "while I watch here."

Paul was a boy of great sense, and he obeyed without question, although it
was very hot before the fire. But it was not a dry, burning heat that
seemed to be in the blood; it was a moist, heavy heat that filled the
pores. He began to feel languid and drowsy, and a singular peace stole
over him. It did not matter to him what happened. He was at rest, and
there was his faithful comrade on guard, the comrade who never failed. The
coals glowed deep red, and the sportive flames danced before him. Happy
visions passed through his brain, and then his eyes closed. The red coals
passed away and the sportive flames ceased to dance. Paul was asleep.

Henry Ware sat in silence on one of the chairs at the corner of the
hearth, and when Paul's breathing became long, deep, and regular, he saw
that he had achieved the happy result. He rose soundlessly, and put his
hand upon Paul's forehead. It came back damp. Paul was in a profuse
perspiration, and his fever was sinking rapidly. Henry knew now that it
was only a matter of time, but he knew equally well that in the
Indian-haunted wilderness time was perhaps the most difficult of all
things to obtain.

No uneasiness showed in his m