How strongly they were contrasted! that fair child, unconscious even of the presence of the many kind friends who had watched and wept beside her--and the aged Sioux women, who had crept noiselessly into the chamber.

I remember them well, as they leaned over the foot of the bed; their expressive and subdued countenances full of sorrow.

That small white hand, that lay so powerless, had ever been outstretched to welcome them when they came weary and hungry.
They told me afterwards, that "much water fell from their eyes day and night, while they thought she would die;" that the servants made them leave the sick room, and then turned them out of the house--but that they would not go home, waiting outside to hear of her.
During her convalescence, I found that they could "rejoice with those that rejoice" as well as "weep with those that wept." The fearful disease was abating in our family, and "Old Harper," as she is called in the Fort, offered to sit up and attend to the fire.

We allowed her to do so, for the many who had so kindly assisted us were exhausted with fatigue.

Joy had taken from me all inclination to sleep, and I lay down near my little girl, watching the old Sioux woman.