"Why, this is equal to a Christmas fog in London," said Dr. McLoughlin, noting the increasing darkness.
"Has the mountain fire-bug been out again? "inquired Douglas.
"Cannot be," said Dr. McLoughlin. "September rains extinguished the mountain fires long ago."
Old Waskema, returning with berries from Mt. Hood, had seen the immigrants in bateaux going down to Fort Vancouver. Hastening to a camp of Molallas who were fishing for the late run of salmon, she startled them with the Cassandra-cry, "Woe, woe, woe the poor Indian! "
"Lou wala clough smoke," said the old crone, shading her eyes with both skinny hands and looking toward St. Helen's.
The superstitious Molallas trembled and put aside their fishing. Still with the hollow "Woe, woe, woe " upon her lips Waskema set out for Fort Vancouver.
It was a phenomenally dark and heavy day. Not even when the great forest fire came down and threatened the fort had it been so oppressive. Dr. McLoughlin went out to observe the lurid sky. Candles were lit in the hall, and the cattle came lowing up from the marshes at midday. The air was full of fine, light ashes that fell over a radius of fifty miles. For the first time in the memory of man the white robes of St. Helen's were blackened with dust.
Down by the boat-house Dr. McLoughlin saw old Waskema, landing from her canoe. With the kindness of heart that would not slight even a withered old squaw, he advanced and took her hand, "Well, what 's the good word, grandmother?"
The decrepit figure tried to straighten itself. In spite of her taciturnity the White-Headed Eagle had
