Mary would not have been sorry if in some way the parents received an
inkling of what was in the minds of the children, yet she had such peculiar
ideas that she would never herself be the one to convey that information.

During the brief summer months the pleasantest walks were along the shores
of the lake. Many were the cosy little cave-like retreats where Mary often
led the children. There, with the sunlit waters before them, and the
rippling waves making music at their feet, the old nurse crooned out many
an Indian legend or exciting story about the red men of the past. To-day,
however, she was perplexed by the attitude of the children and could not
select any story that she thought of sufficient interest to divert their
minds from Souwanas and Nanahboozhoo. So for a time they wandered on along
the pleasant shore, or turned aside to gather the brilliant wild flowers.

A scream of pain from Minnehaha interrupted their pleasure. In gathering
some wild lilies she was stung on both hands by some honey bees that were
in the flowers. Mary quickly made a batter of clay and bound up the wounded
hands in it. Then she sat down and took the child in her lap.

"Naughty bees to sting me like this," said Minnehaha, with tears streaming
down her cheeks. "I was not doing them any harm."

"Yes, you were, and so were we all," said the brother. "We were carrying
off the flowers from which they get their honey, which is their food."

"Well, they might let us have a few flowers without stinging us," replied
Minnehaha.

The intense pain of the stings rapidly abated under Mary's homely but