of her coming. Her relief—relief from that fear she had been feeling when she opened the door—was very evident. It was Henry, then, who had frightened her.
The Indian woman set a chair for her beside the stove, and put water in a pan to heat; she shook tea leaves from a box into a bowl and brought a cup.
"How many on that ship?"
"Altogether there were thirty-nine," Constance replied.
"Some saved?"
"Yes; a boat was picked up yesterday morning with twelve."
The woman seemed making some computation which was difficult for her.
"Seven are living then," she said.
"Seven? What have you heard? What makes you think so?"
"That is what the Drum says."
The Drum! There was a Drum then! At least there was some sound which people heard and which they called the Drum. For the woman had heard it.
The woman shifted, checking something upon her fingers, while her lips moved; she was not counting, Constance thought; she was more likely aiding herself in translating something from Indian numeration into English. "Two, it began with," she announced. "Right away it went to nine. Sixteen then—that was this morning very early. Now, all day and to-night, it has been giving twenty. That leaves seven. It is not known who they may be."
She opened the door and looked out. The roar of the water and the wind, which had come loudly, increased, and with it the wood noises. The woman was
