"Aola was now a widow, and had no one to draw the bow for her, except her eldest son. In a few months, he returned hurriedly from the chase to his mother's wigwam, and throwing himself upon his father's hunting robe, said, 'I am sick.'
"'This time,' said Aola, 'I will surely appease the wrath of our gods.'
"She deprived herself of many comforts to offer more costly sacrifices; but all in vain: her first-born soon breathed his last.
"Before twelve moons had waxed and waned, two more dear ones, precious remembrances of her past joys, had sickened, and in spite of her agonizing prayers to the idols, had passed forever from her sight.
"At length her sweet little Lola, who, in her repeated trials, had entwined herself closer and closer to her heart, grew wan and pale, like the others who had preceded it to the world of spirits. Aola, in her anguish, beat her breast. Suddenly she grew more calm, and, taking Lola in her arms, hastened to a huge pine tree near her wigwam. She seated herself on a little mound at the foot of the tree, and began to look into her own heart."
"I will pray to the God of my Lola."
"'Aola,' she asked herself, 'where is the God who gave you your papoose?'
"She gazed far into the deep, dark forest, then up toward the bright blue sky, and a voice whispered to her soul, 'I am God, who made the heavens and the earth. Plead your cause with me.'
"With streaming eyes Aola replied, 'I will no longer bow down to the gods who would not hear my prayers. I will pray to the God of my Lola.'