And the heat of the burning logs--how
pleasant it was! Timid Hare was too tired to be afraid, or even to
think, and even as she ate, she fell sound asleep.
She awoke next morning with her hand clutching the place where the sock
lay hidden, and saw a kind face bending over her. It belonged to the
same man who had held her when she roused from the snow-chill.
"What is it?" he asked gently. He pointed to her hand.
"It is--my charm. It is to bring me good."
"May I see it?" The man's voice was so kind that it filled Timid Hare
with perfect trust.
"You will--help me?" The child's eyes were full of pleading.
"Yes, little one."
Slowly Timid Hare drew forth the sock. It was faded and soiled, yet
the pattern in which the silk had been woven into the worsted was quite
plain.
"How did--Why, tell me at once how you got this." The man's voice was
half stern, half pleading.
"It was--so." With this beginning Timid Hare repeated the story as
White Mink had told it to her. Many a time she had since told it to
herself during her hard life with The Stone. It was such a strange
story--so full of wonder to her still.
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