What if our darling mother were dead! This would indeed be the greatest grief that could befall us. We could only hope for the best, and pray.
Every Sunday all through the winter we had reading and prayers in the log hut. Jeeka and his wife were constant in their attendance, and if Nadi did not understand all that was said, let us hope she learned enough for her soul’s salvation.
Grief had not yet visited our little settlement, but, alas! it was to come.
August was nearly at a close, and we were beginning to look forward to the coming of spring, when a more bitter snowstorm came on than any we had yet known. The snow was not so very deep, but the wind was very high and keen.
Early on the second morning of the second day of the storm, Nadi came running to our log-house, and, wringing her hands as if in terrible grief, asked for Peter.
“Nadi, what is it?” cried Peter, in great concern to see her tears. “What has happened?”
Nadi spoke English now. That showed how great and real was her anguish.
“Oh, come, come!” she cried; “come you, quick, plenty quick. De leetle coqueet, he die. Oh, come!”
Peter never stayed even to put his cap on, but hurried away through the snow with Nadi towards the Indian toldos.
It was too true. The poor baby was in extremis. Peter bent over it as he sat down. It knew him, and smiled in his face.