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Mrs. Bliggins’ narrative came to an end. Though its application to the misfortune which dominated the minds of the little gathering in Mrs. Mifsud’s kitchen was somewhat obscure, it served to cause a momentary interest. Experiences so unusual and so complicated as those of Mr. Augustus Snoop were bound to be diverting. Edith had quickly put her plan in execution, aided by the willing newspapers; but so far nothing had come of it, and mother and daughter feared their charge had lost more than aunt and cousin. South America, a very definite spot in the child’s mind, was still too vague a postoffice address for even Uncle Sam’s marvellous mail-carrying; and so, while encouraging May Nell, the two women tacitly adopted her into their hearts and discussed her future as if she were their own. Billy laughed. “Mixed again, mamma. This is Vilette,” he drew one bashful little girl nearer the stranger, “and this is Evelyn, Echo, we call her.”.

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The whistle shrilled up the narrow valley, echoing back and forth from the steep green hills that bounded it. Moses’ intuition regarding St. Elmo’s retreat proved to be correct, and it was a sadly dejected countenance on which he gazed when he looked into the cave. Tears, dirt, and the juice of Saskatoon berries mingled on the fair sleeping face of the child, until he seemed to be the very Cree Indian he had so often personated in his play. His long curls were tangled and matted with small twigs. His diminutive brown velvet coat displayed a large rent in the elbow through which oozed a pathetic-looking suppuration of pink and white checked shirt. An enlarged crayon portrait in a wide gilt frame of Moses as a baby in a state of round cherubic innocent nudity, had been added recently to the mural decorations and was especially well covered with cloths. “But you haven’t told us what hurries you so,” Jean called, while Billy was already sprinting away..