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of the kitchen, an immigrant family with six little children in the Indian room, immigrants slept on the dining-room floor. Little Mary Ann and Helen Mar, tucked in their trundle-bed in the doctor's room, asked, " Mamma, mamma, where so many people come from?"

A village of Indians camped outside, eager to explain to the doctor: "We no burn the mill. We no do such thing."

"I know it, my boys, we'll build another; "and the doctor brought out his blackboard, and printed the lessons as if nothing had happened. At the ringing of the hand-bell the feet of little Indians came tracking up the yellow pine floor, and musical voices joined the Nez Perce,

"Nesikapapa kldxta mitlite kopa sdh-a-le." Our Father who art in the above

(or Heaven).

It was nearly Christmas before Dr. and Mrs. Whitman were fully settled to the old routine at Waiilatpu. But the larder was bare, as if swept by a swarm of locusts. Everything went to the immigrants. The mill with its grain was gone. Nothing was left but potatoes and salt, and even salt was two dollars a pound at Fort Walla Walla. "Never mind, Narcissa," said the doctor, "next year we will plant enough for all that come. For the present I think the Indians will sell us some ponies for steak."

Just after the arrival of the immigrants a heavy cloud rose over Mt. St. Helen's, and continued to enlarge. A copper haze, heavier than Indian summer, hung over the Columbia. Mt. Hood was hid in shadow. The sun glared red as blood.