# Nattie Nesmith/Chapter 17

HOUGH Nattie was thus being wailed as dead, she lay in the house of the young contractor, sensible of not much else than that she suffered pain. Till the burns were dressed, she held out admirably, exhibiting more calmness and fortitude than those who stood by her, merely witnessing her sad condition. She manifested a decided opposition to the coming of the old French doctress, insisting that she could, herself, dress the burns, if they would furnish materials.
"But they are all raw, and peppered with dirt ​and ashes," said the contractor's wife, shuddering at the sight; "surely they need to be cleansed before they are bound up in oil."
Nattie looked at her stomach and arms, without quailing.
"I can sop out the dirt, if you will give me some warm water and a sponge," she said.
The wife looked at her husband.
"Let her try," he said; "she has more nerve than both of us, I believe."
The water was brought, and Nattie went to work. It was a severe task, and several times she pressed her lips together, to prevent crying out with the pain which she was obliged to inflict on herself in the operation. She could not but remember how careful she used to be of her little body,—how much more precious than fine gold it was in her sight. A slight cut or scratch was lamented over, its anguish dwelt on pathetically, and the most assiduous care and attention demanded till it was healed. Here she sat to-​night, in deep and dreadful pain, covered with cruel burns, and only her own hands to dress them yet, thankful for the shelter, and the oil and bandages to swathe the wounds. She had expected, a few hours before, to perish of cold and hunger in the wilderness, if she escaped falling again into the hands of those who had brought death and desolation to the humble spot which was her home. She silently thanked God that he had directed her wild, flying feet toward the abode of some of her own race.
Before she had finished her painful task, strength began to fail. The sudden change from the out-of-door atmosphere to the heated apartment: brought on giddiness, and she fell backward on the bed several times while swathing the last arm.
"You can do that for her," said the husband to his wife.
"Oh! I'd rather you would," she answered; "and I will bring her a cup of tea and a slice of ​toast, for I think that the poor thing must need something of the kind by this time."
Nattie looked up at these words, and moved a hand toward her mouth. The action was expressive. The little woman went out, and soon returned with a dish of tea and some nicely browned toast.
Nattie's eyes gleamed with eagerness at the sight, but soon the tears began to roll in great drops down her cheeks. She drank a part of the tea and ate a few mouthfuls.
"Take it away!" she then exclaimed; "take it away! I used to have such at home, long ago, the thought is too much."
"Poor child! I am afraid that your home is burned," said the young wife, kindly; "but do not cry about it now, you are so hurt and sick; perhaps you will have another as good, sometime. Often, when our trouble seems deepest, God is close at hand, to lead us safely through."
"I know that God is good, or I should have ​been dead now," said Nattie. "I thank him, every minute, that I am spared; for surely I was not fit to die."
Tears started again.
"I would not try to talk much to-night," said the young woman. "I will give you a soothing drink, which, I hope, will enable you to sleep, and thus get refreshed. When you are better, you shall tell us about your late misfortunes, if you choose,'and we will render you all the assistance that we can."
"I must not stay here, in your nice house, to make you work and trouble," said Nattie; "but you are very good, to do so much for me as you have done already."
"You must stay here till you get well, unless some of your friends call for you before that time," said the husband; "and we shall not think it any trouble to take care of you. I once had a young sister who got lost, and when I see little girls of her age, I think of her, and wonder ​where she may be now, and what her fate. For her sake, I wish to be kind to them."
"What became of your sister?" asked Nattie, opening wide her dark eyes, and looking up into the face of the man who stood above her couch.
"That I do not know," he answered.
A loud cry from the cradle now called the young wife in that direction.
"Is it a baby?" asked Nattie, her eyes following the little woman.
"Yes," the man answered. "Are you fond of children?"
"I have not seen one for so long, that is, a white one. Oh, how pretty!" she exclaimed, as the rosy child was brought to the bedside, his chubby hands rubbing vigorously at his sleepy, half-open, great black eyes.
"Do you think that he is?" said the fond mother. "He shall sit on your bed when you are better, and make you smile at his merry ways."
​While Nattie gazed her head wandered.
"I can see white beads," she said, "all over the baby's red dress,—Tiny! Tiny!"
"Tiny white beads, you mean," said the young mother. "But I don't see them, and I hope that you won't to-morrow."
But Nattie did see beads, Frenchmen burning wigwams and ghostly squaws, for many days and nights after this. Hardship, exposure and pain, brought on delirium and fever, so she was unconscious of surrounding objects, and knew not where she was or who attended to her wants. The old doctress came and went without opposition from Nattie now, and she passively swallowed the doses prescribed, however nauseous and bitter they proved to her taste. She was very gentle, and thanked her attendants with the most touching humility for every little kindness. They could not gather much from her disconnected, delirious murmuring, and forbore all questions until she was fully restored to consciousness. But ​as no one called for her, and no inquiries were made, they judged that she was without friends in that vicinity. The husband was very busy at his saw-mill during the day, and his wife was quite as busy at home, with her baby and the added care of the sick girl. But nothing suited the little woman better,—for she was a genuine Yankee,—than "to have her hands full," as she expressed it. So, as soon as Nattie began to mend, she at once set about fashioning a loose wrapper out of one of her old dresses, for the use of the sick girl when she could sit up a while each day.
Nattie dressed her burns, even when partly delirious. The young wife, her nurse, often shuddered to see her strip down the plasters, so regardless of inflicting pain on herself, for frequently the skin would peel off, and blood start from the half healed surfaces.
"If you were more careful, it would hurt less," the kind woman would say, looking pityingly on ​the bleeding sores, and observing their slightly improved condition.
"It is no matter," would be Nattie's answer; "I don't mind these little hurts."
One evening the wife was recounting to her husband the incidents of the day.
"She has so much fortitude, and, at the same time, so much submission," she said, "that I wonder more and more the longer I have her in my care."
"Courage is a characteristic of her race," returned the husband.
"But mildness and patience are not," the wife added. "Surely she can not be an Indian girl, husband. Mark her language; she seems to have had good opportunities for education. Neither her looks nor manners are those of a wild race."
"Many Indians are as light colored as she is," said the husband; "and many of them mingle much in white society. They are imitative, and ​easily catch new forms and usages. This girl seems to understand all the arts of the wigwam,—basket making, bead moccasins"——
"Oh, that she has lived among the red men is certain," interrupted the wife; "and possibly one parent was of that race, as in the case of Augustus Reid, or Torch Eye. By the way, where can that young man be? We have not heard from him since he left us, a week ago, and he then promised to soon return, and let you know if he would take the place which you offered him, among the forest men."
"Yes, that is so," answered the husband. "I guess that he has some of the vagrant habits of his race. He may have come across some roving band of Indians, and gone off on a hunting expedition in their company."
"Does he ever do this?"
"Oh, yes; I have heard that he excels most young men in the use of fire-arms, and is quite proud of displaying his skill; but he is a young ​man of superior talent, and I hope that he may, in time, conquer his love of this wild life and become an honored and useful man among our race."
"Have you learned the name of your sick charge yet, wife?" he added.
"She says that she is called Tulip," was her answer; "but farther I have not questioned, as it seems to be painful to her to speak of herself, and she is not quite rational at all times."
"That is an Indian name," said the husband.
"Yes; but I think that she has another, and that we shall learn it, in time."