When it seemed to the child as if she could not move her feet longer, a faint light shone out in the distance.  The camp of the white men would soon be reached.

When the travellers at last arrived at the journey’s end there was great excitement among the men who were anxiously watching for the return of their two companions.  They had feared that their friends had lost their way and been overcome by cold; or more probable, that they had been killed or captured by the Indians.  They were in the Dahcota country,—­this they knew; also that these Dahcotas were fierce warriors and hated the white men.

How surprised they were to see what they thought was an Indian child with their companions!  How did it happen?  What was to be done with her?

But now, as Timid Hare almost fell to the floor of the warm, brightly lighted tent, all saw that she was quite exhausted.  She must be fed, and afterwards sleep.  There would be time enough to question her next morning.

Hot soup was brought, and never, it seemed, had anything ever tasted so delicious to Timid Hare.  And the heat of the burning logs—­how pleasant it was!  Timid Hare was too tired to be afraid, or even to think, and even as she ate, she fell sound asleep.

She awoke next morning with her hand clutching the place where the sock lay hidden, and saw a kind face bending over her.  It belonged to the same man who had held her when she roused from the snow-chill.

“What is it?” he asked gently.  He pointed to her hand.

“It is—­my charm.  It is to bring me good.”

“May I see it?” The man’s voice was so kind that it filled Timid Hare with perfect trust.

“You will—­help me?” The child’s eyes were full of pleading.

“Yes, little one.”

Slowly Timid Hare drew forth the sock.  It was faded and soiled, yet the pattern in which the silk had been woven into the worsted was quite plain.

“How did—­Why, tell me at once how you got this.”  The man’s voice was half stern, half pleading.

“It was—­so.”  With this beginning Timid Hare repeated the story as White Mink had told it to her.  Many a time she had since told it to herself during her hard life with The Stone.  It was such a strange story—­so full of wonder to her still.  The wonder of it was in her voice even now.

The man listened with half-closed eyes, but saying never a word till she finished.  Then, as in a dream, he said in a low tone:  “It is my baby’s sock—­the pattern is one planned by my dear wife Alice who died out on this lonely prairie.  And then—­the sudden attack of the Dahcotas—­and I made prisoner, while my baby Alice was left behind to perish.  Afterwards I was rescued, though I cared little to live.”

“But child, child,” he burst out, “though your eyes have the same color, the same expression as those of my dear wife, your skin is that of the red people.”