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and to hold her propped against the log only a few inches above the rushing water.
    Gradually her breath came back. As her own panic quieted, she felt a needle of fear for the baby. She could not turn her head or free a hand to move the blankets, nor hear a sound in this roaring, but presently she felt a slight jerking against her arm. The baby was kicking feebly, and a choking wail came thinly through the thunder, close against her ear. Captive was alive. If only she could manage to hold her up out of the water till help came. But the awkward position was back-breaking, with the other arm straining to hold them both to the wet log. Its rough bark scraped her ribs unbearably.
    She could see the rest of the party on the bank and could watch their excited gestures, though she could not hear what they were trying to shout to her. She was only vaguely aware of what they were doing. She did not see the Indian searching his pack or remember the length of new rope James Johnson had brought back from his trading. She could not see the Indians recrossing the creek above her, or the stone that hurtled across the rapids over her head with a slithering length of rope attached. After what seemed an endless length of time, however, she realized that something lay across the water, and as it gradually stretched taut she realized that it was a rope, only an arm's length away, from bank to bank. Almost within reach, but too far to be any good to her. She dared not let go the log. She knew she had not the strength to turn her body, to cling to Captive, to let herself into that swirling water again.
    Then she saw that two Indians were coming out across the water, swinging easily and powerfully along the rope toward her—her own master and the young boy. Mehkoa reached her first. Holding out his arms for the baby, he tried to wrest Captive from her grasp. Miriam clung closer to the sodden blanket in terror. She could not trust Mehkoa. Captive was safer with her, even here, than with that grinning savage.

 
    "Give!" he shouted in her ear. "Give papoose. Mehkoa carry!"
    With the swirling water about them, his dark eyes were very close to her own. There was no grin there now. He met her look honestly, and suddenly, with a sob, she gave the baby into his hands. At the same moment the other Indian reached her, and his hard arm went round her waist. The instant her grip on the log let go, Miriam lost consciousness.
    When she opened her eyes, her first sensation was of blessed warmth. A roaring fire crackled within a foot of where she lay, sending a glow that penetrated the soggy rags that clung to her body. Then she felt warmth close to her face, and realized that James Johnson was holding the baby's wooden spoon against her lips. The first swallow of broth made a hot path deep inside. Raising her head, Miriam saw the others all around her, the silent Indians, the children, Susanna on her litter, and they were all watching her.
    "Are you all to rights, Sister?" James asked. "We owe you much, more than we can say."
    "I'm to rights," Miriam answered, pulling herself up. "The baby—is Captive safe?"
    For answer, Susanna pulled aside the woolen jacket that had taken the place of the gray blanket. Captive's wrinkled, red little face puckered up even more tightly at the disturbance, and her pitiful mouth opened in a hungry howl. Susanna raised her eyes and met Miriam's in a long grave look.
    She knows, Miriam thought with wonder. She knows the dreadful things I have been thinking about her. And she knows that I will never think them again! Suddenly she was closer to her sister than ever before in their lives, and the love and courage shining from Susanna's eyes warmed her more deeply than the fire or the broth. Somehow, without a single word, their whole relationship was changed. Miriam had always been the little sister, always tagging along, always just a little at odds with the rest. Now she was a Willard too! For just one moment at least, Susanna's