For the time, he lived at Aunt Betsy’s tent, because Solomon Hook was snow-blind and demented, and at times restless and difficult to control.  The poor boy, some weeks earlier, had set out alone to reach the settlement, and after an absence of forty-eight hours was found close to camp, blind, and with his mind unbalanced.  He, like other wanderers on that desolate waste, had become bewildered, and, unconsciously, circled back near to the starting-point.

Aunt Betsy came often to our tent, and mother frequently went to hers, and they knelt together and asked for strength to bear their burdens.  Once, when mother came back, she reported to father that she had discovered bear tracks quite close to camp, and was solicitous that the beast be secured, as its flesh might sustain us until rescued.

As father grew weaker, we children spent more time upon the snow above camp.  Often, after his wound was dressed and he fell into a quiet slumber, our ever-busy, thoughtful mother would come to us and sit on the tree trunk.  Sometimes she brought paper and wrote; sometimes she sketched the mountains and the tall tree-tops, which now looked like small trees growing up through the snow.  And often, while knitting or sewing, she held us spell-bound with wondrous tales of “Joseph in Egypt,” of “Daniel in the den of lions,” of “Elijah healing the widow’s son,” of dear little Samuel, who said, “Speak Lord, for Thy servant heareth,” and of the tender, loving Master, who took young children in his arms and blessed them.

With me sitting on her lap, and Frances and Georgia at either side, she referred to father’s illness and lonely condition, and said that when the next “Relief” came, we little ones might be taken to the settlement, without either parent, but, God willing, both would follow later.  Who could be braver or tenderer than she, as she prepared us to go forth with strangers and live without her?  While she, without medicine, without lights, would remain and care for our suffering father, in hunger and in cold, and without her little girls to kiss good-morning and good-night.  She taught us how to gain friends among those whom we should meet, and what to answer when asked whose children we were.

Often her eyes gazed wistfully to westward, where sky and mountains seemed to meet, and she told us that beyond those snowy peaks lay California, our land of food and safety, our promised land of happiness, where God would care for us.  Oh, it was painfully quiet some days in those great mountains, and lonesome upon the snow.  The pines had a whispering homesick murmur, and we children had lost all inclination to play.

The last food which I remember seeing in our camp before the arrival of the Second Relief was a thin mould of tallow, which mother had tried out of the trimmings of the jerked beef brought us by the First Relief.  She had let it harden in a pan, and after all other rations had given out, she cut daily from it three small white squares for each of us, and we nibbled off the four corners very slowly, and then around and around the edges of the precious pieces until they became too small for us to hold between our fingers.