Then across the silence broke the little
murmuring sound of the baby half crooning, half crying, indoors,
the little cradleless baby that, homeless, had entered her home.
Maarda returned, and, lifting the basket, again arranged the
wrappings. "The Tenas Klootchman shall have this cradle," she said,
gently. The sick woman turned her face to the wall and sobbed.
It was growing dark when Maarda left her guests, and entered her
canoe on the quest for a doctor. The clouds hung low, and a fine,
slanting rain fell, from which she protected herself as best she
could with a shawl about her shoulders, crossed in front, with each
end tucked into her belt beneath her arms--Indian-fashion. Around
rocks and boulders, headlands and crags, she paddled, her little
craft riding the waves like a cork, but pitching and plunging with
every stroke. By and by the wind veered, and blew head on, and now
and again she shipped water; her skirts began dragging heavily
about her wet ankles, and her moccasins were drenched. The wind
increased, and she discarded her shawl to afford greater freedom to
her arm-play. The rain drove and slanted across her shoulders and
head, and her thick hair was dripping with sea moisture and the
downpour.
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