"What is it?" he asked gently. He pointed to her hand.

"It is--my charm. It is to bring me good."

"May I see it?" The man's voice was so kind that it filled Timid Hare
with perfect trust.

"You will--help me?" The child's eyes were full of pleading.

"Yes, little one."

Slowly Timid Hare drew forth the sock. It was faded and soiled, yet
the pattern in which the silk had been woven into the worsted was quite
plain.

"How did--Why, tell me at once how you got this." The man's voice was
half stern, half pleading.

"It was--so." With this beginning Timid Hare repeated the story as
White Mink had told it to her. Many a time she had since told it to
herself during her hard life with The Stone. It was such a strange
story--so full of wonder to her still. The wonder of it was in her
voice even now.

The man listened with half-closed eyes, but saying never a word till
she finished. Then, as in a dream, he said in a low tone: "It is my
baby's sock--the pattern is one planned by my dear wife Alice who died
out on this lonely prairie. And then--the sudden attack of the
Dahcotas--and I made prisoner, while my baby Alice was left behind to