But still she clutched the cold barrel, and
still she watched and waited, and still she prayed:--

"God of the starving, let not my children die!"

Alas, poor woman! My own body shivers as I think of thine, and my pen
falters to write what misery befell thee on that wretched morn.

Did the buck turn? Did he, having come so tantalizingly near, retrace
his steps? No. He continued to advance. Had Heaven heard her prayer?
Her soul answered it had; and with such feelings in it toward Him to
whom she had appealed as she had not felt in all her life before, she
steadied herself for the shot. For even as she prayed, the deer came
on,--came to the big maple, and lifted his muzzle to its highest reach
to seize with his tongue a thin streamer of moss that lay against the
smooth bark. There he stood, his blue-brown side full toward her,
unconscious of her presence. Noiselessly she cocked the piece.
Noiselessly she raised it to her face, and, with every nerve drawn to
its tightest tension, sighted the noble game, and--_fired_.

Had the frosty air watered her eye? was it a tear of joy and gratitude
that dimmed the clearness of its sight? or were the half-frozen
fingers unable to steady the cold barrel at the instant of its
explosion? We know not. We only know that in spite of prayer, in spite
of noblest effort, she missed the game. For, as the rifle cracked, the
buck gave a snort of fear, and with swift bounds flew up the mountain;
while the poor woman, dropping the gun with a groan, fell fainting on
the snow.

III.

At the same moment the rifle sounded, two men, the Trapper with his
pack, and Wild Bill with his sled heavily loaded, were descending the
western slope of the mountain, not a mile from the clearing in which
stood the lonely cabin. The sound of the piece brought them to a halt
as quickly as if the bullet had cut through the air in front of their
faces. For several minutes both stood in the attitude of listening.

"Down into the snow with ye, pups!" exclaimed the Trapper, in a hoarse
whisper. "Down into the snow with ye, I say! Rover, ef ye lift yer
muzzle agin, I'll warm yer back with the ramrod. By the Lord, Bill,
the buck is comin' this way; ye can see his horns lift above the
leetle balsams as he breaks through the thicket yender. Ef he strikes
the runway, he'll sartinly come within range;" and the Old Trapper
slipped his arms from the pack, and, lowering it to the earth, sank on
his knees beside it, wh