breeze. But this faint sound, given on rare occasions by the Aurora,
unlike any sound of earth, yet seems in perfect keeping with the
marvellous and spiritual beauty of the phenomena, and but increases
and deepens the awe with which it must ever be beheld.

But on this memorable night there was yet another sound, which from
time to time broke upon the almost unearthly stillness: this was the
cry of an infant, coming from the neighbourhood of Michel's camp. The
little one, of whom mention has already been made, had, it seemed,
been, forgotten by all, or if once thought of, there was yet no
effort made to save it from the doom which, to all appearance, now
awaited it,--the Indians comforting themselves with the hope that the
father would look after it, and the father supposing, not
unnaturally, that all his children were together taken off by their
indignant friends and relatives. And so the little one, who had been
but a few hours previously nestling in her mother's arms, spent that
cold night of early spring unsheltered and alone on the high bank of
the river whither she had crawled in the early morning hours. One
could fancy its plaintive cry increasing in vehemence as the hours
wore on, and cold and exhaustion overcame her, with a sense of
weariness and desolation unknown, unfelt, before. There must have
been a sad feeling of wonder and perplexity at the unwonted silence
which reigned around her, at the absence of all familiar sounds and
voices. True, her father's dogs were there, faithful watchers through
the night, who had helped to keep the family in food and fuel through
the long winter months, hauling the sleighs, laden with moose or
deer's meat; or with good-sized fir trees, morning by morning, for
their camp fires. Strong, faithful creatures they were, patient and
enduring, sharing all the hardships and privations of the Indian,
with a fortitude and devotion to be met with nowhere else. It would