to my elbow, struck fire and blew the tinder to a glow.

“This is yours,” he said. And laid in my hand a tiny, lacquered folder striped with the pattern of a Scotch tartan.

Wondering, I opened it. Within was a bit of wool in which still remained three rusted needles. And across the inside cover was written in faded ink:

“Marie Loskiel. “

“How came you by this?” I stammered, the quick tears blinding me.

“I took it from the St. Regis hunter whom Tahoontowhee slew.”

“Was he my mother’s murderer!”

“Who knows?” said the Sagamore softly. “Yet, this needle-book is a poor thing for an Indian to treasure —