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"I am ill, my husband is dead, my brother will take care of me; he's a good man." "Luke 'Alaska," said Maarda. What had she heard of Luke "Alaska?" Why, of course, he was one of the men her own husband had taken a hundred miles up the coast as axeman on a surveying party, but she dared not tell this sick woman. She only said: "You had better come with me.
She looked about her wistfully, evidently seeking a face that was not there, and as the steamer pulled out of the harbor, she sat down weakly on the wharf, laid the child across her lap, and buried her face in her hands. Maarda touched her shoulder. "Who do you look for?" she asked. "For my brother Luke 'Alaska," replied the woman.
Did the woman wish to give the child to her? She dared not ask for it. Suppose Luke "Alaska" wanted it. His wife loved children, though she had four of her own in their home far inland. Then the sick woman spoke: "Your cradle basket and your heart were empty before I came. Will you keep my Tenas Klootchman as your own? to fill them both again?" Maarda promised.
The doctor bent above his patient, shaking his head ruefully as Maarda built the fire, and attended to the child's needs before she gave thought to changing her drenched garments. All day she attended her charges, cooked, toiled, watched, forgetting her night of storm and sleeplessness in the greater anxieties of ministering to others.
A beautifully lucid half-hour came to the fever-stricken one just before the Call to the Great Beyond! "Maarda," she said, "you have been a good Tillicum to me, and I can give you nothing for all your care, your kindness unless " Her eyes wandered to her child peacefully sleeping in the delicately-woven basket. Maarda saw the look, her heart leaped with a great joy.
Maarda said, "You must go to bed, and as soon as you are there, I will take the canoe and go for a doctor. It is two or three miles, but you stay resting, and I'll bring him. We will put the Tenas Klootchman beside you in " she hesitated. Her glance travelled up to the wall above, where a beautiful empty cradle basket hung, with folded silken "blankets" and disused beaded bands.
The woman's gaze followed hers, a light of beautiful understanding pierced the fever glare of her eyes, she stretched out her hot hand protestingly, and said, "Don't put her in that. Keep that, it is yours. She is used to being rolled only in my shawl." But Maarda had already lifted the basket down, and was tenderly arranging the wrappings.
"Where is your cradle basket to carry him in?" she asked, looking about among the boxes and bales of merchandise the steamer had left on the wharf. "I have no cradle basket. I was too weak to make one, too poor to buy one. I have nothing," said the woman. "Then let me carry him," said Maarda. "It's quite a walk to my place; he's too heavy for you."
It is the turning-point of the day, and is served English fashion, in the evening. The passengers "dress" a little for it, eat the meal leisurely and with relish. People who perhaps have exchanged no conversation during the day, now relax, and fraternize with their fellow men and women. I purposely secured a seat at the dining-table beside Maarda.
The woman yielded the child gratefully, saying, "It's not a boy, but a Tenas Klootchman." Maarda could hardly believe her senses. That splendid, sturdy, plump, big baby a Tenas Klootchman! For a moment her heart surged with bitterness. Why had her own little girl been so frail, so flower-like? But with the touch of that warm baby body, the bitterness faded.
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