Without wasting a moment, Timid Hare got the snowshoes and left the tepee.  For a moment she looked about her to see if any other little girl would like to join her in a skim over the fields.  But all seemed busy at their games, and even now she was not enough at home with any one of them to ask them to leave their own play and go off with her, a captive.

So, binding on the shoes, she started off alone.  What fun it was to move so fast and so smoothly!  How clear was the air!  How delightful it was to feel the blood rushing freely through every part of her body!  Her cheeks tingled pleasantly; her heart beat with joy.

Mile after mile the child darted on in the opposite direction from that taken by the hunters in the morning.  So happy, so free felt the child that she forgot how far she was travelling.  Sometimes there were little rolls in the land.  She would get up her speed as she approached them, so as to have force enough to reach the summit of a roll with ease.  And then what fun it was to travel like the wind down the other side!

On, on, on! and then suddenly, Timid Hare came to herself.  Where was the village?  In what direction?  Could she not see smoke rising somewhere behind her, telling of the fires burning in the homes of the people?

There was nothing, nothing, to guide her back—­only some fields apparently untrodden in every direction.  So light was the little girl’s body that her shoes had rarely pressed through the crust.  The short winter day was near its end.  A bank of clouds was gathering about the setting sun, they told of an approaching storm; so also spoke the chill wind that blew in the child’s face.

Fright clutched at Timid Hare’s heart.  She thought of the power of the storm-king.  Here, in the snowy wilderness, it seemed that she must perish.  Was there no one to turn to in this time of danger?  Yes.

“Help me, Great Spirit,” cried the child, lifting her hands towards the sky where she believed He dwelt.

With that cry came a feeling that somehow her prayer would be answered.  And at the same time Timid Hare remembered the little sock which she always carried in her bosom.  She pressed a hand against the place where it should rest.  Yes, it was safe.

“White Mink had faith in it.  So will I,” Timid Hare said to herself.  Many a time during the hard days with The Stone, she had repeated the same words.  It had always helped her to do so.

And now she turned in the direction she hoped was the village of the Dahcotas, but her feet felt numb.  It was hard to travel.  Hark! what was that?  It seemed as though men’s voices could be heard shouting to each other in the distance.  They came nearer.  Could it be that Sweet Grass had sent some of the village boys out after her?

Nearer!  Nearer!  Timid Hare stood still, listening.  If they would only hurry!  She suddenly felt drowsy—­the snow-chill was benumbing her whole body, and somehow she no longer cared whether she was found or not.  She tottered, fell.