It drank eagerly from the cup of clear cold water which she held
to its lips, and ate as much fresh-caught cod, boiled in sea water, and
of her own coarse bread, as she thought well for it.
All the time she fondled the boy and talked to him soothingly in strange
Eskimo words which he had never heard before, but which nevertheless he
understood, for she spoke in the universal accent of the mother to her
little one. And when he had eaten he nestled snugly in her arms, as he
would have nestled in his own mother's arms, and with his head upon her
bosom closed his eyes and sighed in deep content.
Abel when his wife had gone with the child into the tent, anchored the
boat of tragedy a little way from shore, that the big wolf dogs prowling
about might not interfere with the peaceful repose of its silent
occupant. Then rowing ashore in his skiff, he selected a secluded spot
upon the island, and dug a grave.
In the rocky soil the grave was necessarily a shallow one, and he had
finished his task when Mrs. Abel reappeared from the tent to announce
that the boy was sleeping and seemed much better after eating. Then
while they sat upon the rocks and ate their own belated dinner of boiled
cod and tea, Abel told the story of his discovery.
"What do you suppose killed the man?" Mrs. Abel asked.
"I do not know," said Abel. "It looks like a gunshot wound but I have
not searched for a gun yet. It is a fine boat, and did not belong to a
schooner.
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