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"We have the

"Right indeed!" returned the man. right. We are going to take them aboard-take them to England for a show maybe! Here, Tom, avast there; you can circumvent the woman. Leave the youngster to me!"

Harty sprang aside. Quick as thought he had seized on the light spear, which Yokulmah had placed against a tree when she went to the spring. He darted between the man and the poor mother. "Dare to come near her, and you will have it in your face," he cried. "It is poisoned! I warn you! You will not draw another breath." The brutal fellow turned pale. He uttered an oath. "Who are you, with your white face and your English tongue?"

"Never mind who I am," repeated Harty.

"Give me

the child, and be off, or I'll raise the cry that will bring the whole tribe upon you in two seconds."

"Chuck the cub over to the woman," growled the fellow to his mate. The other man put the boy down. The mother snatched him to her breast, and sprang away; but she went no further than the edge of the wood, whence she eagerly gazed upon the disputants.

"At least let us take the jars; we have filled them," growled the man. Harty stepped back. He saw, as in a dream, the men hoist the water-jars upon their shoulders, and move off. He kept between them and his friends, the woman and her child. He held the spear still poised. He never turned his eyes from the cowards, who might yet seek to take their prey unawares. But when they had disappeared, when he fully awoke to the truth that the chance had been so near-that an English ship, no doubt bound for home, for England, was there, within hail—then,

indeed, bitter regret rose within his heart. His hand dropped to his side, and, with a heavy sigh, he turned to where Yokulmah stood, clasping her rescued treasure. The gentle native came forward, with a heart full of gratitude, for the service he had rendered her. She knelt down, placed her child beside her; then, laying her head upon the ground, she lifted Harty's foot, and placed it on her head, signifying, by the action, that he was master of her life and of her child's, whom he had saved once more. Harty quickly helped her to rise, and shook his head, while he kissed the baby boy, and took him in his arms, trying to banish the thought of his own disappointment by calming the excitement of the child, who clung to him as if for protection. But the instinct of the savage was as quick as her gratitude. She marked the downcast look of the white boy. She read his thoughts. She looked in his face-a long, sad look. Then she lifted her child from his arms, and, taking Harty by the wrist, she hurried him forward in a direction he had never yet taken, by a path wholly new to him. Hurriedly she led the way, Harty following in amazement. In a short time they suddenly emerged upon a little bay. The woman shrank back, but pointed out before her. There, to Harty's wonder and delight, he beheld a glorious ship, the English colours flying. A boat was returning from the shore, doubtless the one which had brought the wretches he had routed.

Yokulmah gazed into the boy's face. The bright look which overspread it must have told her the truth, had she not already guessed it. She sighed and drooped her head, but once more made a sign to him to follow her.

A few steps brought them to a small cove, where a canoe

lay hidden among rushes. A pair of rude oars were within. Yokulmah pointed to the skiff, then to the ship, and waved both her hands.

[graphic]

Her meaning was plain. She bade him fly, and showed him the means of escape. For a minute Harty did hesitate. At the last there was regret at parting with his benefactress, and his dusky playfellow. That minute the poor mother watched him hopefully. But it was soon past. Harty put into her hand the spear he had till now retained. He kissed the baby boy and his gentle

mother. Then he pushed the canoe off from the shore, and sprang lightly in.

A small, white flag at the stern went fluttering out gaily, as the boy plied his oars, and stood out across the smooth blue waters, to the ship.

When the native child realized his friend's departure, he uttered a loud cry, and stretched out his little arms.

Harty looked across and waved his hand. Yokulmah sent forth a low, pained wail, then, clasping her boy, she sped away into the woods. When Harty next looked they were gone, and he saw them no more.

CHAPTER XX.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

It's the fever she
I shall have every

"Is the poor lady so very ill then?" "She is just as bad as she can be. has caught, and I can't keep her here. one of my guests going away for fear of catching it." "But her friends have been written to, I suppose." "Oh, yes. The little girl wrote to them, somewhere away near Clumpton, I believe. But I can't keep her here till they come. Everybody is so afraid of the fever. We can't get a nurse to stay with her for love or money." "I don't see what you are to do; you can't turn a poor sick creature out of doors."

"I expect she will have to be taken to the hospital. If we could find a nurse it would not be so bad; but, as I tell you, we can't.”

The speakers were the landlord of the hotel at Gratemill, and a neighbour who had looked in. They were talking about poor Aunt Charlotte, whom we left, if you will remember, after she and Dolly had been visiting the sick boy in the caravan. The poor lady was very weak and weary, with her long journey; and when she arrived

at the hotel she at once went to bed. In the morning she was too ill to rise. At first she thought she was only fatigued, and would soon be better; but she grew worse; a doctor had to be sent for, and soon it was found that she had a bad fever, most likely caught from the sick boy whose dying-bed she had so kindly tended.

Here was a terrible hindrance to their journey. Alone, in a strange place, with none of the comforts of home, and not one friendly face to look upon. Poor little Dolly was indeed wretched. The doctor advised her to write at once to her friends, and the little girl wrote a very nice letter to Mrs. Fairbairn, telling her of the trouble they were in. Aunt Charlotte grew rapidly worse. The servants of the hotel had their work to do, and were unable to spare time for nursing her. Soon she became delirious, and poor Dolly had the misery of hearing her dear aunt talking, in a sad rambling way, about Harty, and all their weary wanderings. Sometimes she fancied they had found him; sometimes she cried out she saw him drowning, or being ill-treated. And she would speak exactly as though she actually saw these things; while poor Dolly could only stand by the bedside, and weep bitterly; for her aunt was quite unconscious of her presence.

"Oh! if she should die," was the thought constantly present in the mind of the forlorn child. And now she had heard, that, as no proper nurse could be found, the only thing would be to take the poor dear invalid to the hospital.

And what would become of her? Of course she could not go with her aunt. She must be left here in a strange house, with strange people! Dolly believed her heart would surely break! Oh! Harty, what misery your one

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