"What's the matter, little one?" he asked. "You are sleepy this morning."
A faint smile trembled about the corners of the child's mouth, but she made no reply.
As this was something unusual, Martin became anxious. He placed his hand to her forehead, and found that it was very hot.
"Nance, Nance! are you sick?" he cried, as he bent and looked searchingly into her eyes.
"Yes, daddy," was the low response. "I'm so tired and hot. I want Quabee."
As Martin listened to these words he was seized with a nameless dread. For the first time he noticed how very wan was her flushed face. What should he do? He was helpless in the presence of sickness. The Indian women might know what was the trouble.
"So you want Quabee, do you?" he questioned.
"Yes, I want Quabee," was the faint reply.
"Very well, then. I shall go for her at once. I won't be long."
As Martin hurried over to the Indian encampment he upbraided himself for his neglect of the child. "I've been a fool, a downright fool!" he muttered to himself. "I might have seen days ago that she was failing if I had not been so taken up with that cursed gold."