Sometimes she thought of beaching the canoe and seeking shelter
until daylight. Then she again saw those fever-haunted eyes of the
stranger who was within her gates, again heard the half wail of the
Tenas Klootchman in her own baby's cradle basket, and at the sound
she turned her back on the possible safety of shelter, and forged
ahead.
It was a wearied woman who finally knocked at the doctor's door and
bade him hasten. But his strong man's arm found the return journey
comparatively easy paddling. The wind helped him, and Maarda also
plied her bow paddle, frequently urging him to hasten.
It was dawn when they entered her home. The sick woman moaned, and
the child fretted for food. 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. The doctor came and
went between her home and the village, but always with that solemn
headshake, that spoke so much more forcibly than words.
"She shall not die!" declared Maarda.
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