woman standing silently and respectfully before me, wrapped in a large
blanket. The moment she caught my eye she dropped the folds of her
covering from around her, and laid at my feet the attenuated figure of a
boy, about twelve years of age, who was in the last stage of consumption.

"Papouse die," she said, mournfully, clasping her hands against her
breast, and looking down upon the suffering lad with the most heartfelt
expression of maternal love, while large tears trickled down her dark
face. "Moodie's squaw save papouse--poor Indian woman much glad."

Her child was beyond all human aid. I looked anxiously upon him, and knew,
by the pinched-up features and purple hue of his wasted cheek, that he had
not many hours to live. I could only answer with tears her agonizing
appeal to my skill.

"Try and save him! All die but him." (She held up five of her fingers.)
"Brought him all the way from Mutta Lake [Footnote: Mud Lake, or Lake
_Shemong_, in Indian.] upon my back, for white squaw to cure."

"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
tea-spoonful 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."