"Except for you, my son, our struggle had been in vain; for in a few minutes we should have been drawn into the rapids, and that would have been the end. I am glad you have shown yourself so strong, my child, for your mother will soon need your young arms, I fear, for strength and life seem forever dead within me," he answered, in a voice so full of lugubrious forebodings that I cried out as if some great misfortune hung over us. My mother, too, burying her face in my bosom, also began to weep, and thus, despite our being saved, we all mourned as if some dreadful mishap threatened.
"Oh, pap," I answered at last, "I'm too small to do more than love you and come to you for everything I want, but we've got ourselves, and what more is there? When I'm a man I'll give you all I have, and we will make mother love us more and more every day."
To this he made no response, save a sob and the pressure of his hand, which was icy cold. Nor did he ever afterward speak to me in the old way, for from that time a dreadful melancholy seized him, which never departed nor lightened, but grew steadily darker each day until the end.
For our present comfort there was not one thing lacking, the good Indian woman nursing us as if we were her own children, so that in a little while we were well and strong as before. As soon as my father had rested, he set out in search of our companions, not returning till the evening of the following day. Of those he sought, however, there was no trace. All were lost, and with them the heaped-up wealth they had in charge. Comforting my mother and refreshing himself, he started again, but without result, save to recover the bodies of some of our companions as they came to the surface far down the river. Of the treasure there was no sign; the great rapids had sucked it down and so tossed and dispersed it about that no trace of it could be discovered.
After many days' fruitless effort in this way my father gave up the search; and now determining to return home, my little pony was brought to the door for my mother to mount. Then as we were about to take our departure, looking on our benefactress, we all with one accord burst into tears at the remembrance of her kindness and the unhappy fate of our late companions. At this the good La Reine, putting her arms about my neck, kissed me, calling me her son, adding some words in her own tongue that I did not understand. Then turning, she embraced and kissed my mother, tears trickling down her sad face as she did so. Of money or other valuables we had none to leave in remembrance of her kindness, until my mother, bethinking her, loosened a great chain from about her throat—my father's gift—and reaching down, clasped it about the neck of our benefactress.
"We shall never forget you, dear mother," she said, tears running down her face; "you have been our good angel, and may God bless you for your love and kindness to us."
"The Great Spirit is good, and will keep all his children," La Reine answered, sadly and in farewell.
Thus we took our departure, my father supporting my mother on one side and I clasping the stirrup on the other. Looking back as we turned to ascend the stream, we saw La Reine as we had left her before the little hut, her eyes fixed on ours, a melancholy picture of gentleness and lonely abandonment.
Our sad journey occupied many days, and oftentimes as we marched along my mother would reach down, and lifting me up, fold me in her arms, saying, "Let me hold you a minute, you little waif." Or maybe she would place me behind her, "just to give your tired legs a little rest," she would say, with an attempt at cheerfulness. Throughout the journey was one of sorrow and dark forebodings, my father's melancholy growing greater as the days went by. In such mood he would stride ahead like one crazed, waving his hand fretfully back and forth before his eyes, as if to shut out some horrible vision; or from being silent for a long time, would suddenly cry out: "Oh, God, Jesus of Nazareth, are they all gone, every one?" and at the remembrance great tears, like blots of ink, would start in his weary eyes, and his face would flush as if the pain of it was something too great to bear. Sweet mother! Angel of mercy! How lovingly you watched over him during that long and weary journey, and afterward. This as if he were an ailing child, and by love and endearing words could be brought back to his former self; but vainly, for no cheerful smile, nor trace of one, ever again showed itself in his sad and haggard face.
When at last we reached home, the good people from far and near flocked to our house to show their sorrow and mingle their tears with ours; and of those who had lost the part or the whole of their fortune, no hint was given that they in any way mourned. All alike were tender and solicitous to lessen, if they might, the melancholy of my father, or lighten the burden of my sorrowing mother. He, moving about as if asleep or dead, mingled with the guests, saying nothing, gazing with melancholy sweetness upon those who came to proffer aid, but accepting naught. When at last they had gone their way and we were once more alone, he straightway bestirred himself as in former times. Collecting all his belongings, he forced them to sale for what they would bring, dividing the proceeds among those who had suffered, giving most to the families of those who were lost. Many sought to refuse, but he received their overtures with such savage displeasure that no one was able, finally, to decline what he offered. In this way we lost all we had, and with it our home, which my mother had named Wild Plum, because of a pretty grove of trees of this kind that grew near by. In its transfer reservations were made which were much talked about at the time as in some way likely to lessen the grief of my father; but vainly, for he gave no thought to anything save to divide what he had among those who had suffered.