All die but him." (She held up five of her
fingers.) "Brought him all the way from Mutta Lake[1] upon my back,
for white squaw to cure."
[1] Mud Lake, or Lake Shemong, in Indian.
"I cannot cure him, my poor friend. He is in God's care; in a few
hours he will be with Him."
The child was seized with a dreadful fit of coughing, which I
expected every moment would terminate his frail existence. I gave
him a teaspoonful of currant jelly, which he took with avidity, but
could not retain a moment on his stomach.
"Papouse die," murmured the poor woman; "alone - alone! No papouse;
the mother all alone." She began re-adjusting the poor sufferer in
her blanket. I got her some food, and begged her to stay and rest
herself; but she was too much distressed to eat, and too restless to
remain. She said little, but her face expressed the keenest anguish;
she took up her mournful load, pressed for a moment his wasted,
burning hand in hers, and left the room.
My heart followed her a long way on her melancholy journey. Think
what this woman's love must have been for that dying son, when she
had carried a lad of his age six miles, through the deep snow, upon
her back, on such a day, in the hope of my being able to do him some
good.
