I passed the remaining weeks of my exile in hermit-like solitude. I was not disposed to make further studies in my chosen calling, and time hung heavily upon my hands. I checked off the days upon my calendar with red ink, so that I should not become confused and miss the date of my departure. Having been shipped out of town until September first, to save my life, I did not intend to sacrifice it by returning on August thirty-first. “Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well,”—a trite copy-book maxim, that, but none the less a true one.

The English language, vast as it is, can convey no adequate idea of my longing for civilisation. The rush and roar of city life, the loud-voiced clangour of commerce, and the fine, inspiring click of my telegraph instrument would have been music to me. I packed up, ready to start at one minute after twelve on the night of my release. Happily, there was a train at a quarter past one, and I could get to town in time for breakfast.

From the time of my packing until I set off on the long trail, at one minute after twelve, by my jewelled repeater, I experienced the discomfort of those who have moved mentally, but are still clamped, physically, to the places they have moved from.

My stern fidelity to truth compels me to record the fact that my arrival in the city was not as pleasing as I had fancied it would be. The noise was terrible, and before eating my simple breakfast at a quick-lunch counter, I was obliged to stuff cotton into my ears. This did not prevent me from hearing the candid comments made upon my personal appearance by the pretty waitresses.

“Uncle Rube, from Hayville,” observed a dashing blonde to her giggling companion. “Pipe the alfalfa on the jay’s mug,” said another. At this there were hissing murmurs of: “Sh-h! He’ll hear you!” “Naw,” said the speaker, “he’s deef. He’s calked his listeners with white fur. Bet his wife had a hand in it. She don’t want him to bring home no gold bricks in his carpet-bag.”

The talk had risen to such a crescendo pitch that passers-by were fain to take an interest in it, and it seemed to me that it was time to interfere.

“Young ladies,” I said, clearing my throat, “I have neither wife nor carpet-bag. I have calked my listeners, as you concisely put it, to keep the chatter of green parrots from interfering with my noteworthy meditations. I am a Scientist—an unchristian Scientist, I may add, and I shall take pleasure in sending a copy of The Ladies’ Own to this restaurant for the guidance of the help. Read it carefully, study it, ponder over its noble precepts, and it will enable you to win the respect of your employer and his customers.”

In the midst of a profound silence I walked out, discovering two blocks farther on that I still held the green check calling for fifteen cents. I bought two copies of The Ladies’ Own and sent a boy back with them, thus more than repaying my indebtedness.

I determined to report at my physician’s office before returning to my apartments. In the reception-room of his suite, I first caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and was compelled to admit that I looked seedy. My hair, which had not been cut for over three months, hung down over my collar in the manner of Buffalo Bill’s, and I had a thirteen weeks’ growth of undisciplined beard upon my erstwhile smooth countenance. My linen, also, was questionable.

Finally, I was admitted, and my medical adviser gasped out something which sounded like “gosh,” but which doubtless was not, since he is a perfect gentleman.

“Dear friend,” I cried, advancing with outstretched hands, “I have come to thank you for my life!”

“Don’t mention it,” he returned, modestly. “I assure you, it is nothing worth speaking of.”

“When I left you,” I continued, “I was a physical wreck. Behold me now! I have lived next to the ground and studied the ways of those wonderful creatures whom, in our arrogant self-esteem, we call the lower animals. I have had for my friends all the wood folk—Upsidaisi, the Field Mouse, Unk Munk, the Porcupine, Ka-Ka, the Pole-Cat, Tom-Tom, the felinis simpaticus, Kitchi-Kitchi, the Red Squirrel, Hoop-La, Sing-Sing, Pitti-Bird, Chee-Wee——”

Here my medical adviser interrupted me. “Mr. Johnson-Sitdown,” he said, wearily, “as this is my busy day, it will be a kindness if you will put the remainder of that into a phonograph and have it sent. The collection of Chinese laundry checks is doubtless interesting and valuable, but I am obliged to specialise in my own line. Permit me to give you another prescription.”

He rose from his chair, handed me a bit of folded paper, and opened the door. My Summer in the wilderness had so sharpened my naturally acute senses, that I instantly perceived my friend’s wish to be alone, and accordingly, with rare tact, I bowed myself out. How I pitied the man who could not be a hermit except between patients! Nevertheless, one must have patience before one can be a hermit.

At the first drug store I handed in the prescription, and the clerk returned presently with the remark that they did not keep it. I asked him where I could find it, and he suggested a barber-shop.

Outside, I opened the prescription. It read as follows:

I spent the rest of the day and all the money I had left in explicitly following out the directions of my gifted friend. In the morning I was back at my desk.

Throughout the Winter I spent my evenings studying Natural History and writing out my own experiences for the magazines. A boom was on in this kind of literature and the supply was not at all equal to the demand, so, in place of the returned manuscripts, I speedily acquired some sort of a vogue. Doubtless the reader will remember that I had some pieces, carefully edited, in The Ladies’ Own and The Girlie’s Close Companion. Meanwhile my income was pleasurably increased, and I shortly became so independent that I wholly ignored those miserable sheets which pay “on publication” and publish when they like. I planned to quit work entirely during the warm months, and this choice morsel of news was noised about among the literary editors. In more than one paper I read that “Mr. O. Sitdown-Johnson Johnson-Sitdown, the well-known naturalist, will spend the Summer in Yellowstone Park, studying the animals of that region.” Before I left town, I had contracted for the publication of all the work I could do—and more, too, as it afterward proved.

That was a great year for Bears, and all through the West they were unusually abundant. Cattle and sheep were killed on the range, chicken coops rifled, and provisions stolen from the lumber camps. In fact, the nuisance became so great that a bounty was put upon Bear pelts in more than one State and every trail was practically barricaded with traps.

Indians coming in reported that the woods were vocal with low, mournful sounds which, in every case, originated at the Bear traps. When a Bear was caught in a deadfall, his mate, or her mate, as the case might be, would sit by, holding the poor head in tender arms, and rock back and forth, moaning, until the men came to remove the body. Considerations of safety alone would put the bereaved mate to flight. This is the law of the wilderness—self-preservation first, the old, primeval instinct, supported by claw and tooth and fang and the swift pace down the trail.

Other observers have found two instances only of a Bear sitting by the trap, holding its dead mate in its arms, and moaning. Whether I was more fortunate or more observing, it is not for me to say, but that year, and in that locality, the woods were full of it.

Naturally, with all this material at my disposal, I made up my mind to study Bears first. I had not been in the Geyser House three minutes before I was out in the kitchen, making earnest inquiries of the cook and scullery maids. I learned, to my delight, that Bears came to the back door every day, and that by sitting on the step, I might see them. One of the scullery maids suggested to me that I peel the potatoes as I sat there. It seemed that the odour of this succulent root was very attractive to Bears, and, in fact, they never came to the back door except when potatoes were being peeled.

There were few guests at the Geyser House, as it was comparatively early in the season, but I studied the register carefully. Upon it, in an angular hand, I noted the names of “Mrs. Miranda Kirsten,” and “Miss Miranda Kirsten.” For some reason, these names moved me profoundly, and I was still thinking of them when I fell asleep.

In the morning, when I went down to breakfast, a lady and a child were seated at my table. At once, I knew who they were. The mother ignored me, but the little girl’s eyes were fastened upon me with tender interest. While she was engaged in contemplating me, she choked on her near-food, and doubtless would have strangled had I not with swift presence of mind gone to the rescue. I grasped the child, reversed her, and swung her back and forth by the heels until the section of straw mattress which she had vainly attempted to swallow was dislodged from the main line of her bronchial system.

“Dear sir, kind sir,” said the mother, with tears in her eyes, as I put the thoroughly frightened child into her outstretched arms, “how shall I ever thank you for preserving my daughter’s life!”

“Do not mention it,” I replied, in the happy and appropriate words of my medical adviser; “I assure you, it is nothing worth speaking of.”

“Sir-r-r-r!” exclaimed the mother, in a freezing tone.

“I mean, dear Mrs. Kirsten,” I went on, in my best manner, “that I am accustomed to it. From Maine to San Francisco, every Summer, it has been my good fortune to save the lives of unnumbered children who have choked upon near-food.”

Here the little Miranda slipped out of her mother’s arms and came to me. “Pitty man,” she said, placing her hand upon mine with tender confidence. “Baby loves ’oo.”

That settled it. I was at once restored to the mother’s good graces, and we chatted pleasantly all through breakfast.

Immediately afterward, with my camera and my note-books, I went out to see Bears. I felt, rather than heard the animals, for, as every observer knows, the soft, padded feet of a Bear make no noise whatever upon the trail.

I walked along as carefully as possible, but saw nothing to photograph until the path turned. There, sitting up on her haunches, not twenty paces from me, was a large black Bear!

Her Cub, also upon his haunches, was about a yard and three-eighths behind her, and I realised that my situation was serious. I had no weapon—the authorities do not allow weapons of any description to be carried in the Park, except the pen, which is mightier than the sword, but no use to anybody in an emergency like mine unless it is a Bear pen. If I turned and ran, she would doubtless follow me and overtake me long before I reached the hotel. In fact, I was sure that I never should reach it, if the Bear followed me. There was nothing left for me to do but to try the power of the human eye.

Now, as everyone knows, Bears are near-sighted, and I was almost upon the animal before she saw me. Then she gave a loud “S-n-o-o-f!” and ran into the depths of the forest, her Cub so hot upon her trail that he might have stepped on it and torn it.

So great was my relief that I laughed aloud, but I could not help wondering what would have happened if the Bear had been more near-sighted than she was. Nature gives the animals what they most desire—the silent wing to the Owl, the keen claws to the Panther, and the soft walk to the Bear.

I walked about for some little time, but saw no more Bears. I chronicled the incident in my note-book, immediately, naming the mother “Snoof,” and the Cub “Snooflet.” I supposed she was one of those who had been widowed by the traps in the forest outside of the Park limits, but inquiry at the hotel assured me that both she and her Cub were well known. I was told, also, that if I wished to see Bears, I must go to the garbage heap, a mile away from the Geyser House.

That night, as we sat upon the veranda of the hotel, I regaled Mrs. Kirsten and the little girl with the story of my morning’s adventure. The moon was shining brightly, and my fair companion had the immemorial charm of the widow, with the added witchery of moonlight. Together, the combination was a powerful one.

Miranda climbed into my lap and nestled sleepily in the hollow of my arm. “Tell me,” said Mrs. Kirsten, in a soft, musical voice, “why are you here?”

“Because you are,” I responded, gallantly. “Why are you here?”

“On Miranda’s account,” she said, shortly. She snatched the sleeping child out of my arms, and in less time than it takes to tell it, she was gone.

I waited nearly three hours, but she did not return, so I went off into the Park a little way to compose my thoughts for the night. In a clearing, four miles from the hotel, I came upon a strange sight. Snoof sat on her haunches, with one arm around her Cub. With her free paw, she was pointing to the heavens, outlining, as I shortly saw, the constellations of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor for her offspring. Reverently removing my hat, I tiptoed away. Truly, maternal devotion has depths far beyond my ken.

In the night, I saw Snoof and Mrs. Kirsten, Miranda and Snooflet, waltzing around the garbage heap, and I was overjoyed to wake and discover that the painful spectacle was merely a fantasy of sleep.

It must have been two or three days later that I went downstairs very early in the morning and found Mrs. Kirsten upon the veranda with her little daughter. She was removing the child’s shoes and stockings, and I did not make my presence known for fear of embarrassing them both.

Miranda toddled off, and her mother sat down upon the top step, watching her with agonised mother-eyes until she was well out of sight. Then a dry, tearless moan welled up from the depths of her heart. A moment later, her face was buried in her handkerchief, and she was shaking with sobs.

This was too much for me. I am a landlubber when it comes to salt water, and have never been able to endure a woman’s tears. I hastened out and put my hand upon her shoulder.

“Mrs. Kirsten,” I said, very gently, “you are troubled. Let me help you!”

“Oh, sir,” she answered, breaking down utterly at the unexpected sympathy, “you cannot help me—no one can! The most celebrated physicians and alienists have given up the case.”

“Dear Mrs. Kirsten, Miranda the First,” I continued, “you can at least tell me. Two heads are three times as good as one if the extra head is mine.” To the critical reader this may sound egotistical, but the situation was tense, and it was no more than the truth.

“Oh, how can I bear to tell you! I, who have always lived a decent, respectable life, holding my head as high as my neighbours’ heads, I, to have this shame, this fear!”

“Dear Miranda the First,” I pleaded, forgetting all conventional forms, “tell me! Believe me, I am your friend!”

“I know it,” she cried, “but it is too terrible! Miranda, my darling little daughter, my own and only child, is—is—is—is——”

“Is what?” I demanded, excitedly.

“A Little Sister to the Woods!” she gasped, then hid her face against my shoulder.

With rare comprehension, for a man, I only stroked the weeper’s spine and said nothing. At last her sobs quieted. “You do not despise me?” she asked, tremulously.

“Despise you?” I repeated. “No, dear lady, no!”

When she was calm, she told me the whole miserable story. From her birth, Miranda the Second had been exceedingly fond of animals and had refused to associate with children at all. She drew animals of all kinds as a sheet of sticky fly-paper draws Flies. She made friends with Lizards, Spiders, Toads, Bumblebees, Hornets, Foxes, Wasps, Rabbits,—in fact everything that crossed her path, with the single exception of Snakes. For three days she had been lost, and when she was finally discovered, it was in the wake of an Italian who had a dancing Bear. Miranda wept bitterly when the police took her home, and for over a week she raged and screamed, demanding with every breath to be taken back to the “pitty Bear.”

It was only upon the promise of seeing plenty of Bears that she had quieted down at all, and her mother had brought her to Yellowstone Park, knowing that the animals there would be practically harmless, especially to one of Miranda’s gifts, and in the hope that satiety might work a cure.

Yet every morning, for the three weeks they had been there, Miranda had insisted upon going forth alone. “My baby,” sobbed the mother, “my baby, out there alone with the wild beasts! I cannot go with her, for she is safer without me. I am no relation whatever to the woods, to say nothing of being a Little Sister.”

“But her shoes and stockings,” I said, pointing to the soft bundle half concealed by Mrs. Kirsten’s skirt, “why are they here?”

“I do not know,” she answered, shaking her head, sadly. “It is possible, of course, that they may insulate her, as it were, from her mother earth, and thus make her so different from the other animals that they could not recognise her as one of them. It is possible, also, that she sees more Bears when she is barefooted.”

There was a long silence, then the little toddler came within range of our vision. She was accompanied by a huge grizzly Bear, who was walking beside her on his hind legs. Her little hand rested confidingly in his great paw, and I confess that the sight made me shudder. They came together, the great Bear walking slowly to accommodate Miranda’s short steps, until they reached a point half-way between the hotel and the edge of the forest.

Then the Bear stopped, pointed to us with his free paw, and Miranda nodded, in token that she understood. She ran on ahead a little way, then turned back. The great grizzly bowed very low, with his right paw placed over the pit of his stomach, then came down on all fours and ambled off into the forest.

Miranda came to us, breathless and laughing. “Oh,” she cried, with her face aglow, “pitty Bears! Booful, booful Bears!”

“Pray, what does ‘booful’ mean?” I inquired in a low tone of the mother, as she put on Miranda’s shoes and stockings.

“It is early English for ‘beautiful,’” explained Mrs. Kirsten, her face white with pain.

Perceiving that it would be the truest kindness to the woman I had learned to love, I stole away. My keen scientific mind quickly grasped the possibility before me. Miranda might be of great use to me—so much was plain—but would it be right? Then I saw that I could not hope to cure Miranda’s malady until I had seen the working of it so often that I fully understood its character and scope. Happy, happy thought!

That afternoon, while Mrs. Kirsten slept the sleep of utter exhaustion, I told Miranda the story of Goldenhair and the Three Bears, and so won her childish affections forever. As yet, I dared not suggest my plan to Mrs. Kirsten, but I felt sure that the time would come when I might appropriately do so.

The next day I went out to the garbage heap, and settled myself comfortably under the tree nearest to it. I must have seen over two hundred Bears, but I was near enough to none of them to make the observations I desired. So, with the true Scientist’s fine disregard of inconvenience, I made an excavation in the top of the garbage heap, climbed in, and concealed myself as well as I might with the litter. I do not claim that it was pleasant, but it was unavoidable.

All day I saw Bears, meanwhile plying my camera and note-book vigorously. They came and went, but before night I was so familiar with the different individuals that I had named many of them and knew them all by sight. I saw nothing of Snoof and Snooflet, however, and began to wonder where they were keeping themselves.

Shortly after sunset, the Bears disappeared from the garbage heap, apparently with one accord. They moved so silently that I did not see any of them go away. I waited half an hour but none of them came back. Then I determined to extricate myself from my unsavoury predicament, but some sixth sense bade me wait a few moments longer.

Presently I saw the huge grizzly who was Miranda’s friend, cautiously limping toward the garbage heap, and my heart grew heavy with portent, for he was an ugly customer to meet without a weapon of any sort. He pawed over the cans, setting some aside with evident care, and kicking the others far away in disgust. I snapped my camera at him, and at the click he pricked up his ears, then gave a deep, thunderous growl which echoed and re-echoed through the silence.

I scarcely dared to breathe. In my inner consciousness I promptly christened him “Growler,” but I did not attempt to take his picture again.

Hard upon the roar came Snoof, and she instantly rushed Growler away from the garbage heap. He made no defence, but simply slunk away, and I gathered that he was a suitor of hers who had not as yet found favour. He was old and rheumatic, and many a time, after that, I found him wallowing in the hot mud around the sulphur spring to cure his rheumatism, but this belongs in another book.

She sniffed over the cans, and angrily thrust aside those that he had gathered together, though I could see that some of them were nearly full. She tasted here and there, but ate nothing, and presently went back into the forest.

Snooflet met her here. She washed his face after the manner of a Cat, paying special attention to his neck, then began on his hands and nails. I did not know that Bears did this, though I have since discovered it in a new book on Natural History. Then, from its hiding-place at the root of a tree, she took a comb, made from an Elk’s horn, and a very creditable comb it was, too. She combed poor Snooflet until he howled, then collared him and cuffed him, finally making him sit still until she completed her own toilet.

Together they approached the garbage heap, Snooflet sniffing loudly in anticipation of the feast. He seized immediately upon a tin which had contained maple syrup, and began to eat greedily, but his mother gave him another pair of cuffs and took it away from him.

I wondered what her object could be, but I was not long left in doubt. Bidding him be quiet, she pawed over the rubbish until she found two tins which had contained condensed soup. They ate the remnants of this, polishing the inside of the cans with their rough tongues until the metal shone like new. Then Snooflet had a salmon can and his mother a lobster tin which contained little aside from the juice. Next they each had an entire can of roast beef, which had somehow been spoiled in transit, some cold potatoes, some peelings of raw potatoes, half a can of peas, and a canned tomato or two. A dry cracker came next, with some salad dressing and a hard rind of Roquefort. I wondered why she did not make a presentable salad of the tomato and the dressing—salads are always made of leftovers and these things had been left over a long time, but I dared not make the suggestion for fear my first name would have to be changed to Claude if I did so.

Then came dessert. Snooflet had his maple syrup tin, and his mother the remnants of a pot of raspberry jam. Having eaten their dinner in well-bred seclusion and in the proper order, they went away together, apparently happy.

By this time I was hungry myself, so I climbed out and made my way to the Geyser House. Mrs. Kirsten was on the veranda, and at the sight of me she laughed the first hearty, unconscious laugh I had ever heard from her lips. “Hello, garbage pail,” she said, merrily, when the paroxysm had subsided somewhat, “why don’t you go around the back way?”

I looked at myself. A sardine box hung on my tie, a lobster tin protruded from my pocket, and I was covered from head to foot with melon seeds. A cabbage leaf and a melon rind adorned my hat.

Melancholy though I was, I was about to pass her in a frigid, dignified manner, and go up to my room, but the stony-hearted manager of the hotel interfered. “Here, you blamed old scavenger,” he cried, “this isn’t a dump heap. Go and bury your clothes! Why you look like a guy, sir!”

“Is not this the Geyser House?” I asked. The joke, which might have been sold to a funny paper for three dollars, was utterly lost upon him. He repeated his impolite suggestion about my clothes and said he would send a boy to me with more.

I had no choice but to obey. In my changed raiment I was allowed to go to my room, where a bath, clean linen, and a shave speedily set me right again. I had left my clothes in the woods for future expeditions of the same sort.

Elaborating my notes and developing my plates took me the better part of a week, and all the time, there was a decided coolness between Mrs. Kirsten and myself. Not so with Miranda. She loved me, if her mother did not, and pleaded with me at every meal to take her with me when I went to see the “pitty Bears.”

The next morning I was sitting on one corner of the veranda and Mrs. Kirsten on the other, with Miranda’s shoes and stockings in her lap. I knew where the child had gone and surmised that a tempest was raging in the mother’s heart, but she was too proud to turn to me for even a look of sympathy.

Presently Miranda came toward us at the top of her speed, with a Bear in full pursuit. Man though I was, my heart stood still with fear. I had no weapon—I was utterly helpless—and Mrs. Kirsten, literally paralysed with horror, stood like a statue.

The Bear was gaining at every step. Go it, Miranda! On, for Heaven’s sake on! Heed not the thorns that pierce thy tender feet, but run, Miranda, run!

With an inarticulate moan, Mrs. Kirsten flew down the steps, her arms outstretched, and I followed, willing to sacrifice my own life, if need be, to save the child of the woman I loved. But we were too late. Snoof—for it was she—felled Miranda to the ground with one blow, turned her limp body over, face upward, and took something out of her hand, throwing it aside with an angry sniff.

In a twinkling, Miranda was on her feet, violently chastising the Bear with her chubby hands. “Naughty, bad Snoofie!” she screamed. “Take Miwanda’s bewwies!”

Snoof cast a glance of peculiar intelligence at me, winked suggestively, then ambled off into the forest to rejoin her Cub, who was calling her plaintively.

I hastened to find what the Bear had thrown away. It was a little china mug, ornate with blue and gold, and the inscription, “For A Good Girl,” lettered on it. All around were scattered the bright red berries which Miranda had picked. At once I understood—they were poison, and Snoof had saved Miranda’s life.

In a few well-chosen words, I acquainted the mother with the facts. She promptly spanked Miranda and carried her into the house, yelling like any normal child. In an hour she returned, pale, haggard, and trembling with emotion.

“To think,” she said, brokenly, “that that old Bear should have saved my child’s life! I will never doubt the wisdom of Providence again. Had it not been for Snoof, Miranda would at this moment have been a cold, cold corpse. The Little Sister of the Woods would have known the ‘pitty Bears’ no more!”

I was gratified at the change in my loved one’s demeanour, but the next morning the bars were up again and Mrs. Kirsten treated me with the barest politeness.

Some days later the grizzly came up to the hotel, dressed in the coat and vest, collar and tie, which I had left in the woods. He had evidently found that the trousers did not fit him, for he had made no more attempt than a Highlander to dress the rest of him, and went about, with equal unconcern, in his bare legs.

He coquetted around for a long time, watching for Miranda, then Snoof appeared, with a tin pail in each hand. She had come to the hotel, as she often did, for milk and molasses. Miranda came out and spoke in friendly fashion with the grizzly, using a language I did not understand, but she paid no attention whatever to Snoof. Having secured her milk and molasses, Snoof went away, leaving her suitor conversing amiably with Miranda, but I could see a red look in her eyes that boded no good to anybody.

The end came shortly afterward. Miranda and I had been playing croquet and Miranda still kept her mallet in her tiny, chubby hand. Not expecting visitors from the suburbs, Miranda wore her shoes. I mention this, that the reader may judge whether or not it had any influence upon what followed.

We sat down upon the steps to rest a moment. The steps of the Geyser House were very comfortable indeed, being made of soft wood and having been given two coats of paint.

Suddenly the grizzly materialised. You can never hear a Bear come. Now you see it and now you don’t—they make no noise whatever. He had on my coat and vest and was walking on all fours, but at the sight of Miranda, he stood up and began to walk like a man—a man with the rheumatism.

The child laughed gleefully at the sight. “Wait,” she said, “baby make circus.”

She called the Cat, set it upon the grizzly’s back, and made them gallop around an imaginary ring in spite of the grizzly’s loud yowls of pain. While the fun was in full blast, Snoof appeared, aflame with hatred and jealousy, and charged straight at Miranda.

My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth and I tasted blood, but Miranda, with great calmness, raised her croquet mallet, and waited,—the merest fraction of a second. At the proper instant, she brought it down with a sounding whack upon the end of Snoof’s nose—her single vulnerable spot. The great Bear fell to earth, stunned.

I quickly finished the execution with my pocket knife. The grizzly, frightened, tore madly off into the woods, forgetting his rheumatism, and leaving us alone with the dead.

It was not pleasant, even though the end of a wild animal is always a tragedy. The only way to make a story of this kind untragic is to quit before you get through.

An astounding change was taking place in Miranda. She leaned over the corpse, her eyes dilated and her small body tense. Her breast was heaving and she shook like an aspen. I would have picked her up and carried her to her mother, but I was fascinated by her face, and moreover, I wanted to see what would happen. The true Scientist must ever sacrifice his emotions to his reason.

Gradually, the entire expression of her face altered. The eerie, wild look had vanished completely, and in its place was a very normal fright. “Tum!” she shrieked. “Baby ’fraid!”

I took up the Little Sister of the Woods and ran into the hotel, rejoicing in my heart that the child was cured. That evening, I proposed marriage to Mrs. Kirsten, who was overjoyed at her child’s sudden recovery, but my hopes were felled to earth as suddenly as Snoof had been that very afternoon.

“The bigamy laws are very strict,” she sighed, meditatively. “Do you not find them so?”

“What,” I gasped, “is your husband alive?”

“Yes,” she returned, “if he hasn’t drunk himself to death since we came here. If Miranda had only been able to charm Snakes,” she continued, “we could have lived very happily with her Pa.”