John Baptiste remained there a short time and returned to us, saying, “Those at the other camp believe the promised relief is close at hand!”

This rekindled hope in us, even as it had revived courage and prolonged lives in the lake cabins, and we prayed, as they were praying, that the relief might come before its coming should be too late.

Oh, how we watched, hour after hour, and how often each day John Baptiste climbed to the topmost bough of a tall pine tree and, with straining eyes, scanned the desolate expanse for one moving speck in the distance, for one ruffled track on the snow which should ease our awful suspense.

Days passed.  No food in camp except an unsavory beef hide—­pinching hunger called for more.  Again John Baptiste and Noah James went forth in anxious search for marks of our buried cattle.  They made excavations, then forced their hand-poles deep, deeper into the snow, but in vain their efforts—­the nail and hook at the points brought up no sign of blood, hair, or hide.  In dread unspeakable they returned, and said: 

“We shall go mad; we shall die!  It is useless to hunt for the cattle; but the dead, if they could be reached, their bodies might keep us alive.”

“No,” replied father and mother, speaking for themselves.  “No, part of a hide still remains.  When it is gone we will perish, if that be the alternative.”

The fact was, our dead could not have been disturbed even had the attempt been made, for the many snowfalls of winter were banked about them firm as granite walls, and in that camp was neither implement nor arm strong enough to reach their resting-places.

It was a long, weary waiting, on starvation rations until the nineteenth of February.  I did not see any one coming that morning; but I remember that, suddenly, there was an unusual stir and excitement in the camp.  Three strangers were there, and one was talking with father.  The others took packs from their backs and measured out small quantities of flour and jerked beef and two small biscuits for each of us.  Then they went up to fell the sheltering pine tree over our tent for fuel; while Noah James, Mrs. Wolfinger, my two half-sisters, and mother kept moving about hunting for things.

Finally Elitha and Leanna came and kissed me, then father, “good-bye,” and went up the steps, and out of sight.  Mother stood on the snow where she could see all go forth.  They moved in single file,—­the leaders on snowshoes, the weak stepping in the tracks made by the strong.  Leanna, the last in line, was scarcely able to keep up.  It was not until after mother came back with Frances and Georgia that I was made to understand that this was the long-hoped-for relief party.

It had come and gone, and had taken Noah James, Mrs. Wolfinger, and my two half-sisters from us; then had stopped at Aunt Betsy’s for William Hook, her eldest son, and my Cousin George, and all were now on the way to the lake cabins to join others who were able to walk over the snow without assistance.