her, just as life had gone out of that other mother's heart when
the baby died. For their grief, in God's reckoning of things, was
the same; and little Peter, sensing the greatness of this thing
that had made them one in flesh and blood, snuggled his wiry face
closer in her neck, crying softly to her, and content to die there
close to the warmth of the creature he loved.

"Don't cry, baby," she soothed. "Don't cry, Peter, dear. It'll
soon be all right--all right--" And the sob came again into her
throat, and clung there like a choking fist, until they came to
the edge of the big forest.

She looked down, and saw that Peter's eyes were closed; and not
until then did the miracle of understanding come upon her fully
that there was no difference at all between the dying baby's face
and dying Peter's, except that one had been white and soft, and
Peter's was different--and covered with hair.

"God'll take care o' you, Peter," she whispered. "He will--God,
'n' me, and Mister Roger--"

She knew there was untruth in what she was saying for no one, not
even God, would ever take care of Peter again--in life. His still
little face and the terrible grief in her own heart told her that.
For Peter's back was broken, and he was going--going even now--as
she ran moaningly with him through the deep aisles of the forest.
But before he died, before his heart stopped beating in her arms,
she wanted to reach Jolly Roger's friendly cabin, in the big swamp
beyond the creek. It was not that he could save Peter, but
something told her that Jolly Roger's presence would make Peter's