Amos was so frequently in his boat that no one gave any especial attention when they saw him push off from shore and row steadily in the direction of Truro. He was not missed at home until supper time; then, as the little family gathered around the table, Mrs. Cary said:

“’Tis time Amos was here. He’s not often late for his supper.”

“He won’t be here for supper,” announced Amanda; “he’s gone to find Anne!”

“My soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Cary; “gone to find Anne, indeed. What possesses the children of this settlement is more than I can answer. And you, Amanda! Here you are all smiles and twinkles, as if you thought it a great thing for your brother to start off like this.”

“He’s gone by boat, I vow,” said Mr. Cary.

“Yes, he means to row to Truro, and catch up with Anne. And he said to tell you he’d be back, or get you news of him in some way, by Saturday,” and Amanda nodded smilingly, as if she were quite sure that her father and mother would be quite satisfied with Amos now that she had given them his message.

“Amos shall have his way in one thing,” said Mr. Cary. “As soon as he is back, aye, if he comes Saturday or not, I’ll put him aboard the first craft that can get out of harbor, and the farther her port the better. A year on shipboard is what the boy needs.”

“You wouldn’t send the boy with a strange captain?” Mrs. Cary questioned anxiously.

“Indeed I will. So long as he’s on board a ship we shall know where he is,” declared Amos’s father. “We can do nothing now but wait. Find Anne, indeed! who knows where to look for the poor child?”

“Amos knows,” said Amanda.

But Mr. and Mrs. Cary shook their heads. They did not feel much anxiety as to Amos’s safety, for the boys of the settlement were used to depending on themselves, and many boys no older than Amos Cary or Jimmie Starkweather had made a voyage to the West Indies, or to some far southern port; but they were displeased that he should have started off without permission.

Saturday came, but Amos did not appear, but toward evening a Truro man brought Mr. Cary word that Amos had been in Truro, and had started for Brewster that morning.

“He’s a sailor, that boy!” declared the Truro man admiringly. “He hoisted that square foot of sail-cloth, and went out of harbor at sunrise with a fair wind. He said he had ’business in Brewster,’” and the Truro man laughed good-naturedly. “But he’s a smart boy,” he added.

Mr. Cary made no answer, but his stern face softened a little at the praise of Amos. Nevertheless he was firmly resolved that Amos should be sent on a long voyage. “The harder master he has the better,” thought the father. “I’m too easy with him.”

When Amos hoisted his “square foot of sail” and headed for Wellfleet, he saw a canoe some distance ahead of him.

“Two squaws paddling and one doing nothing,” thought the boy. “Wonder where they’re bound?” But it was no unusual sight to see Indian canoes in those waters, and Amos did not think much about it. But his course brought him nearer and nearer to the graceful craft, and all at once he noticed that the figure sitting in the canoe was a little white girl. At that very moment Anne turned her face toward him.

“Amos!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet.

There was an angry exclamation from the squaw, a yell from Nakanit, and in an instant the girls and woman were in the water. Anne’s jump had upset the delicately balanced craft. The baskets bobbed and floated on the water. Anne’s bundle was not to be seen, while Anne herself, clutching at the slippery side of the canoe called “Amos! Amos!” in a terrified voice.

But it was no new experience for either the squaw or Nakanit. In a moment Anne felt a strong grasp on her shoulder. “Keep quiet,” commanded the squaw. “Let go the canoe.” As Anne obeyed she saw Nakanit close beside her, and, while the squaw kept her firm grasp on Anne’s shoulder, the girl righted the canoe, and easily and surely regained her place in it. The squaw lifted Anne in, and quickly followed her. Amos had brought his boat as near as possible and now rescued the baskets and floating paddles, and handed them to Nakanit.

The squaw scowled at Anne, and when the girl bewailed her lost bundle muttered angrily.

“Want to get in my boat, Anne?” asked the boy.

Before Anne could answer the squaw with a strong sweep of her paddle had sent the canoe some distance from the boat, while Nakanit called back some word to Amos, evidently of warning not to follow them. But Anne turned her head and called “Amos! Amos!” For the scowling faces of her companions frightened her, and she wished herself safely in Amos’s boat.

The breeze had now died away, and Amos was soon left some distance behind. Anne did not dare turn her head to see if he were following the canoe, which was now moving ahead rapidly as the Indians swiftly wielded their paddles.

“Go to Brewster,” announced the squaw after a little silence.

Anne, huddled up in her wet clothes, frightened and unhappy, nodded her head in answer. Then, remembering that the squaw had bidden her to sit still, and that her jump had upset the canoe, she ventured to say: “I’m sorry I jumped.”

The squaw’s scowl disappeared, and she gave a grunt of approval, and then, evidently, repeated Anne’s words to Nakanit, for the Indian girl smiled and nodded. Anne began to realize that they were really kind and good-natured, and that she had no reason to be afraid.

“I was surprised to see Amos,” she continued.

The squaw nodded again, and repeated, “Go to Brewster.”

Anne could now hear the sound of the oars, and knew that Amos was rowing toward them. The paddles began to move more swiftly, and the sound of the oars grew more indistinct. Anne realized that Amos could not keep up with the canoe. But she was sure that he would follow them, and it made her feel less uneasy.

“Amos is a good boy,” she explained to the squaw, but there was no response. “I’d like to tell him that you’ve been good to me,” continued Anne.

At this the squaw, with a word to Nakanit, held her paddle motionless, and very soon Amos was close beside them.

“Tell him,” commanded the squaw.

So Anne told her little sorry of adventure, and said, “And they are going to take me right to Rose Freeman in Brewster. Nakanit’s mother talks English.”

Amos listened in amazement. “I told Amanda you’d started for Brewster,” he responded, “and I sent word to father that I was going there, so I might as well go. I’ve got things to eat. Amanda’s sorry,” he added, looking rather shamed as he spoke his sister’s name.

The squaw now dipped her paddle again, and the canoe and boat moved forward. Anne began to think about her lost bundle, and to remember how neatly Rose Freeman dressed. “She will be ashamed of me,” thought the girl, looking down at her wet and faded skirt and bare feet.

“Say, don’t we stop anywhere for dinner?” asked Amos. “It’s getting hot work rowing all this time.”

The squaw looked at the boy sharply, and then turned the canoe toward the shore. They landed on a beach, close by the mouth of a stream of clear water. A little way from the beach they found shade under a branching oak-tree.

“I’ll build a fire,” suggested Amos, “and I’ll get some clams; shall I?” and he turned toward the squaw.

She nodded, and seemed rather surprised when she saw that the boy understood her own way of getting fire, and when he asked for a basket and soon returned with it well filled with clams, which he roasted in the hot sand under the coals, she evidently began to think well of him. Amos shared his bread and a piece of cold beef which he had brought from home with his companions, and, with a quantity of blueberries that Nakanit had gathered while Amos roasted the clams, they all had enough to eat, and Amos said everything tasted better than if eaten in the house, at which the squaw nodded and smiled.

Anne found a chance to whisper to Amos: “Don’t tell her I ran away.”

“All right, but I fear she knows it,” replied the boy.

It was in the early evening when the canoe, closely followed by Amos’s rowboat, left Wellfleet harbor behind them and headed for Brewster. The squaw had decided that it would be easier to go on than to wait for another day, and Anne and Amos were glad to go on as soon as possible.

At first Amos had wondered why the squaw had promised to take Anne to Brewster, and had decided that probably the Indians were bound in that direction when they fell in with Anne. This was really one reason, but it was Anne’s mention of the name of Freeman that had made the squaw willing to do the girl a service. For the Freemans of Brewster had been good friends to the Mashpee Indians, and the squaw felt bound to help any friend of theirs.

She had questioned Amos sharply as to his reason for following Anne, and Amos had told her the truth: that his sister had not treated Anne fairly, so that Anne had been punished, and had run away. “So, of course,” added the boy, “I had to come after her and be sure that she was all right.”

The squaw understood, and evidently thought well of Amos for his undertaking. Anne felt much happier to know that a friend was close at hand, and that Amos on his return home would tell her Aunt Martha Stoddard that she was safely in Brewster. But the lost bundle troubled her a good deal. As she sat in the swiftly moving canoe and watched the steady dip of the paddles she thought that the Indians had been very good to her. “If I had my bundle now I would give Nakanit the cape and the beads; indeed I would,” she said to herself.

The midsummer moon shone down upon the beautiful harbor. Every wooded point or sloping field was plainly outlined in the clear water, and there was the pleasant fragrance of pine and bayberry mingled with the soft sea air. It was much pleasanter than journeying in the sun. The squaw and Nakanit began to sing, and although neither Anne nor Amos understood the words, they were both sure that the musical notes told of birds flying over moonlit water.

It was midnight when the squaw turned the canoe toward shore. It proved to be the mouth of a small inlet up which they went for some distance, Amos keeping close behind.

“Look, Anne!” he exclaimed as the Indians stopped paddling. “There is a camp-fire. I do believe it’s the Mashpee village.”

“Sshh,” warned the squaw in a sharp voice. At the sound of the boy’s voice a number of dark figures appeared to spring up from the ground, and the squaw called out a word of greeting. A moment later she was talking rapidly to several tall figures who came to meet her, evidently telling Anne’s story and that of Amos.

Anne could distinguish the word “Freeman” in the squaw’s talk.

Amos pulled his boat up on shore, and stood wondering what would happen next. He looked toward the wigwams and the smoldering camp-fires, and almost forgave Amanda, because his journey was bringing him into the Mashpee village.

One of the Indians gave him a little push, and pointed toward a wigwam. It was evident that the squaw was the only one who spoke English.

“Go with him,” she said to Amos.

“All right,” responded the boy; “here’s your bundle, Anne,” he said, holding it out toward her. “I fished it out of the water when you tipped over. Guess it isn’t much wet.”

Anne was almost too delighted to speak. She hugged the bundle in her arms and followed Nakanit up the path toward the village. This was evidently the squaw’s home, and her wigwam had many deerskins, blankets and baskets.

Nakanit led Anne toward the back of the wigwam where lay a pile of spruce boughs over which deerskins were thrown. In a few moments the Indian girl and Anne lay on this rude couch fast asleep.

When Anne awoke the next morning there was no one in the wigwam. Everything seemed very quiet. Anne’s first thought was for her beloved bundle that she had carefully set down beside her bed. It was not there. The little girl slid to her feet, and began looking about the wigwam. There was no trace of it. Anne began to feel very unhappy. It had been hard to make up her mind to give Nakanit her treasured corals and her pretty cape, but it was even harder to bear to have them disappear like this. She threw herself back on the bed and began to cry bitterly. She wished that Rose Freeman had never thought of asking her to come to Brewster, and that she was safe in Province Town with Aunt Martha.

She stopped crying suddenly, for she felt a hand smoothing her hair, and she looked up to find Nakanit sitting beside her, and at her feet rested the bundle. It was plain that the mischievous Indian girl had wished to tease the little white girl, but had relented at the sight of her tears.

“Oh,” exclaimed Anne, “I’m so glad!” and she began to unfasten the bundle, spreading out the blue cape and muslin dress, and laying “Martha Stoddard” down on the deerskins. Then she took up the string of coral beads and turning toward Nakanit fastened them around her neck. “I want to give you these for being good to me,” she said. The Indian girl understood the gift if not the words, and was evidently delighted. Hearing a noise at the entrance they looked up to see the squaw smiling in at them. She had heard Anne’s words, and now came toward the girls. Anne picked up her blue cape and held it out toward the squaw. “I wish I had something better to give you,” she said.

The squaw took it eagerly, and with a grunt of satisfaction, and then, turning to Nakanit, began chattering rapidly. Nakanit ran toward a big basket in the corner and came back with several pairs of soft moccasins. Kneeling before Anne she tried them on her feet until a pair was found that fitted.

“Now go with Nakanit to the lake,” said the squaw, and Anne followed Nakanit out of the wigwam through the woods to a clear little lake where the girls bathed, braided their hair, and then came back to eat heartily of the simple food the squaw gave them.