and wondering what would happen now, and heartily wished herself safely back in the Stoddards’ snug little house.

As the Indian woman listened Anne could see that she was angry and when Nakanit, for that was the Indian girl’s name, had finished the squaw snatched the cape from the girl’s shoulders, and, pointing to the beads, evidently bade her unfasten them. As the Indian girl obeyed the squaw gave her a sharp slap on the cheek, and Nakanit, without a look toward Anne, fled into the forest.

“Here, white child,” said the woman, “here are your things. What are you doing so far from the settlement?”

“I am going to Brewster,” replied Anne.

The Indian woman eyed her sharply.

“You have run away from your mother and father,” she said sharply.

“My mother is dead, and my father is at sea,” Anne replied, feeling her face growing red under the sharp eyes of the squaw, and a little ashamed that she did not own that she was running away from Aunt Martha Stoddard. But she felt that Aunt Martha had been very unfair toward her.

The Indian woman’s face softened. “And you journey alone to find friends in Brewster?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed; I am to go to Rose Freeman, and ride with her and her father in their chaise to Boston, and wait at their house for my father.”

The squaw nodded. The name of Freeman was known to her, and though a sixty mile journey seemed a long way for so small a girl as Anne, the woman only wondered at the unkindness of the white women in letting a child go alone.

“Come,” she said, and Anne, gathering up her shoes and stockings and the rumpled white dress, followed her.

The squaw turned from the path and, as she walked swiftly on, gave several low calls which to Anne sounded like the notes of a bird. The last call was answered, and a moment later Nakanit appeared beside them. For a long time they went on in silence, and at last the squaw stopped suddenly.

“Oh!” exclaimed Anne, for directly in front of them was a wigwam, so cunningly built in behind a growth of small spruce trees that unless one knew of its whereabouts it might be easily passed by. The Indian girl laughed at Anne’s exclamation, and nodded at her in a friendly manner.

“Go in,” said the squaw. “Did no woman give you food to eat on your journey?”

Anne shook her head.

“Umph!” grunted the squaw, and turned toward Nakanit, evidently telling her to bring Anne something to eat.

The Indian girl opened a basket that stood near the wigwam door and took out some thin cakes made of corn meal, and handed them to Anne. Anne ate them hungrily; they tasted very sweet and good, and, when she had eaten the last one, she turned toward the squaw who sat beside her, and said: “Thank you very much. The cakes were good.”

The squaw nodded gravely. Anne looked round the wigwam with curious eyes. It was evident that Nakanit and her mother were nearly ready for a journey. The two baskets were near the door, the roll of blankets beside them, well tied up with stout thongs of deerskin, and the little brush wigwam had nothing else in it.

The Indian girl stood with her dark eyes fixed on Anne, and the squaw talked rapidly for a few moments, evidently giving the girl information or directions; then she lifted the smaller of the two baskets, and fastened its deerskin strap over Nakanit’s shoulders. The roll of blankets and the other basket she carried herself.

“Follow,” she said to Anne; “we journey toward Wellfleet and you can go with us.”

Anne’s face brightened, and she began to feel that her troubles were over. She picked up her own bundle and followed the squaw and the Indian girl out through the woods and across a meadow where a few cattle were feeding.

“This must be Truro,” Anne thought to herself as she trudged silently on beside her new friends.

It grew very warm and there was no shade, and Anne began to feel tired, but neither Nakanit nor her mother seemed to notice the heat. It was past noon before they made any stop, and as Anne, who was some distance behind her companions, saw the squaw turn toward a little wooded hill and begin to lower the basket from her shoulders, she gave a long tired sigh of relief. Nakanit heard and turned toward her, and reached out her free hand to take Anne’s bundle. But Anne shook her head, and tightened her hold on it. This seemed to anger the Indian girl, and with a surly word she gave Anne a push, sending her over into a clump of wild rose bushes. As Anne reached out to save herself the thorns scratched her hands and arms and she cried out. The squaw turned, and, as she had not seen the push, thought that Anne had stumbled, and began to laugh at her and to mock her cries. This delighted Nakanit, who joined in so loudly that Anne stopped in terrified amazement, and scrambled out as well as she could. Her feet ached, and she could hardly walk, but she went on behind Nakanit into the pleasant shade of the woods, and here her companions set down their baskets, and threw themselves down to rest. Anne looked at them a little fearfully; they had not spoken one word to her since leaving the wigwam.

The squaw opened the basket and gave each of the girls some of the corn bread, which they devoured hungrily. “There are berries over there,” she said briefly, pointing toward the slope, “and water.”

Nakanit was already running toward the slope, but Anne did not move; she was still hungry and very thirsty, but too tired to walk, and as she lay on the soft grass she began to dread the moment when the squaw might start on again. It was not long before Nakanit returned. She brought with her a cunningly made basket of oak leaves pinned together with twigs, and heaped full of blueberries; the squaw shook her head as Nakanit offered her the berries, and pointed toward Anne. Nakanit obeyed, but somewhat sulkily, for she had meant to help Anne with the bundle, and was still angry at Anne’s refusal.

“How good they taste,” exclaimed Anne as she helped herself to a handful, and she smiled up gratefully at Nakanit. The Indian girl’s face brightened, and she smiled back, and sitting down beside Anne held the basket forward for her to take more. When the berries were finished Nakanit again disappeared.

After several hours’ rest the squaw started on again, and Anne followed after wondering where Nakanit was. In a short time they came down to a sandy beach.

“Why, look! There’s Nakanit!” exclaimed Anne, pointing toward the water, where a bark canoe floated near the shore with Nakanit in it, holding her paddle ready to send the craft to whatever point on the beach her mother might direct.

The squaw called, and with a twist of the paddle the girl sent the canoe to the shore. The squaw lifted in the baskets, the roll of blankets and Anne’s bundle. “Sit there, and be quiet,” she said, and Anne stepped in very carefully and sat down on the bottom of the canoe.

It was now late in the afternoon. The water was very calm, and as Nakanit and her mother dipped their paddles and sent the canoe swiftly along, Anne looked back toward the wooded shore and was very glad that she was not plodding along over the fields and hills. It was much cooler on the water, and the little girl wondered if her Aunt Martha missed her at all. “But perhaps she is glad that I ran away,” thought Anne, for she was sure that she had not given either Amanda or Mrs. Stoddard any reason to be unkind or to blame her. “Rose Freeman will be glad I came; I know she will,” was her comforting thought.