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again.
    She saw Davy standing in front of the old Indian and knew they were waiting for her to come. As she hurried to join them, the pain in her heart became so great she could not bear it and she burst into tears.
    “Don’t cry, Mary!” called her mother’s voice behind her. “Be brave, my child, be brave! God bless you…farewell…farewell…”
    Then Molly looked back at the little group through her tears. She had to look—how could she go off and leave them sitting there? She saw Mrs. Wheelock on her knees stretching straining arms to her boy Davy. She saw white-faced Betsey with the baby in her lap—and all the little ones. She saw her mother with a look of not fear or pain, but only kindness on her face; and she knew that her mother would save her from all she was to suffer if she could.
    She saw her father—her father whom she loved so dearly. He seemed to come out of his stupor for a moment and to realize what was happening. He lifted his head and smiled at Molly, and words came again from his dry, parched lips: “The Injuns’ll never hurt you, Molly-child! Why, when they see your pretty yaller hair a-shinin’ in the sun, they’ll think ’tis only a corn-stalk in tassel! They’ll never hurt you! Remember that, Molly-child!”
    Molly smiled back, thinking of the happy time when first he had said those words. Then, with her family’s calls of sad farewell in her ears, she walked along with Davy and the old Indian and soon left them far behind.
    It was a long time before the old Indian stopped. At last he found a comfortable camping-place and spread beds with soft hemlock boughs. Was he not cruel like the others? Was he trying to be kind? For the first time he spoke and his words were English. “Go sleep. No be scairt!” he said, pointing to the beds. Molly looked up into his eyes astonished.
    All night long she kept her arm round little Davy’s shoulder, while the Indian watched near by. The children said their prayers and cried together, then they talked awhile.
    “Oh, Molly, he’s fallen asleep now. Let’s get up and run away. I want to go back to my mother,” begged Davy.
    “Ma said we’d only be killed if we tried it,” answered Molly. “She said ’twas best to stay with the Indians.”
    “Let’s go back to Marsh Creek Hollow then,” said Davy. “My father will be there by now with the troops. He’ll chase the Injuns away.”
    “Davy,” Molly spoke slowly, “we could never travel in the wilderness without a path or guide. We’d die…we’d starve with no food to eat. If we stay, the Indians will feed us, I think…”
    “But I can’t walk on again tomorrow,” protested Davy. “My feet are sore and bleeding.”
    “The nice soft moccasins will help,” said Molly. “Yours are prettier than mine.”
    “Oh, won’t I ever see my mother again?” cried Davy.
    “The others may catch up with us in the morning,” replied Molly, but she said it with a sinking heart, remembering her mother’s farewell words.
    “Molly, I don’t want to go with the Indians, I’m afeard…” wailed Davy.
    “Don’t be afeard, Davy, don’t be afeard!” said Molly. She remembered how great was her mother’s fear of the Indians before they came; and how, when they came, she met them with calm courage. Courage was better than fear, Molly said to herself. Courage helped not only yourself but others. She must have courage, not only for herself but for Davy. “Don’t be afeard, Davy, I’m here with you.” She urged him to lie still until morning and was relieved when at last the boy fell fast asleep.
    The next morning there was no sun and fog patches were everywhere. The Frenchmen and Indians who had been left behind came up, and Molly and Davy saw that their families were no longer with them. What had become of them? They pressed questions on the pitiless Frenchmen, on the old Indian who had spoken the few words of English, but received no answer. After a breakfast of meat and bread, rain