“Farva!”

Astonished as Mac was, disappointed and relieved all at once, there was something arresting in the appeal.

“I’m not your father,” he said stiffly.  “Who’re you?  Hey?  You speak English?”

The child stared at him fixedly, but suddenly, for no reason on earth, it smiled again.  Mac stood looking down at it, seeming lost in thought.  Presently the small object stirred, struggled about feebly under the encompassing furs, and, freeing itself, held out its arms.  The mites of hands fluttered at his sleeve and made ineffectual clutches.

“What do you want?” To his own vast astonishment Mac lifted the little thing out of its warm nest.  It was woefully thin, and seemed, even to his inexperience, to be insufficiently clothed, though the beaded moccasins on its tiny feet were new and good.

“Why, you’re only about as big as a minute,” he said gruffly.  “What’s the matter—­sick?” It suddenly struck him as very extraordinary that he should have taken up the child, and how extremely embarrassing it would be if anyone came in and caught him.  Clutching the small morsel awkwardly, he fumbled with the furs preparatory to getting rid, without delay, of the unusual burden.  While he was straightening the things, Father Wills appeared at the flap, smoking saucepan in hand.  The instant the cold air struck the child it began to cough.

“Oh, you mustn’t do that!” said the priest to Mac with unexpected severity.  “Kaviak must lie in bed and keep warm.”  Down on the floor went the saucepan.  The child was caught away from the surprised Mac, and the furs so closely gathered round the small shrunken body that there was once more nothing visible but the wistful yellow face and gleaming eyes, still turned searchingly on its most recent acquaintance.

But the priest, without so much as a glance at the new-comer, proceeded to feed Kaviak out of the saucepan, blowing vigorously at each spoonful before administering.

“He’s pretty hungry,” commented Mac.  “Where’d you find him?”

“In a little village up on the Kuskoquim.  Kaviak’s an Esquimaux from Norton Sound, aren’t you, Kaviak?” But the child was wholly absorbed, it seemed, in swallowing and staring at Mac.  “His family came up there from the coast in a bidarra only last summer—­all dead now.  Everybody else in the village—­and there isn’t but a handful—­all ailing and all hungry.  I was tramping across an igloo there a couple of days ago, and I heard a strange little muffled sound, more like a snared rabbit than anything else.  But the Indian with me said no, everybody who had lived there was dead, and he was for hurrying on.  They’re superstitious, you know, about a place where people have died.  But I crawled in, and found this little thing lying in a bundle of rags with its hands bound and dried grass stuffed in its mouth.  It was too weak to stir or do more than occasionally to make that muffled noise that I’d heard coming up through the smoke-hole.”