“Don’t cry, baby,” she soothed.  “Don’t cry, Peter, dear.  It’ll soon be all right—­all right—­” And the sob came again into her throat, and clung there like a choking fist, until they came to the edge of the big forest.

She looked down, and saw that Peter’s eyes were closed; and not until then did the miracle of understanding come upon her fully that there was no difference at all between the dying baby’s face and dying Peter’s, except that one had been white and soft, and Peter’s was different—­and covered with hair.

“God’ll take care o’ you, Peter,” she whispered.  “He will—­God, ‘n’ me, and Mister Roger—­”

She knew there was untruth in what she was saying for no one, not even God, would ever take care of Peter again—­in life.  His still little face and the terrible grief in her own heart told her that.  For Peter’s back was broken, and he was going—­going even now—­as she ran moaningly with him through the deep aisles of the forest.  But before he died, before his heart stopped beating in her arms, she wanted to reach Jolly Roger’s friendly cabin, in the big swamp beyond the creek.  It was not that he could save Peter, but something told her that Jolly Roger’s presence would make Peter’s dying easier, both for Peter and for her, for in this first glad spring of her existence the stranger in the forest shack had brought sunshine and hope and new dreams into her life; and they had set him up, she and Peter, as they would have set up a god on a shrine.

So she ran for the fording place on Sucker Creek, which was a good half mile above the shack in which the stranger was living.  She was staggering, and short of wind, when she came to the ford, and when she saw the whirl and rush of water ahead of her she remembered what Jolly Roger had said about the flooding of the creek, and her eyes widened.  Then she looked down at Peter, piteously limp and still in her arms, and she drew a quick breath and made up her mind.  She knew that at this shallow place the water could not be more than up to her waist, even at the flood-tide.  But it was running like a mill-race.

She put her lips down to Peter’s fuzzy little face, and held them there for a moment, and kissed him.

“We’ll make it, Peter,” she whispered.  “We ain’t afraid, are we, baby?  We’ll make it—­sure—­sure—­we’ll make it—­”

She set out bravely, and the current swished about her ankles, to her knees, to her hips.  And then, suddenly, unseen hands under the water seemed to rouse themselves, and she felt them pulling and tugging at her as the water deepened to her waist.  In another moment she was fighting, fighting to hold her feet, struggling to keep the forces from driving her downstream.  And then came the supreme moment, close to the shore for which she was striving.  She felt herself giving away, and she cried out brokenly for Peter not to be afraid.  And then something drove pitilessly against her body, and she flung out one arm, holding Peter close with the other—­and caught hold of a bit of stub that protruded like a handle from the black and slippery log the flood-water had brought down upon her.