CHAPTER THREE.
A GRATEFUL INDIAN, BY HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.
Jem could not walk any farther; his ankle was badly hurt, there was no doubt of that, and, brave little lad though he was, his heart sank within him, for he knew all the consequences which might ensue from such a disaster.

It was not the pain that daunted him--Jem would have scorned the imputation; neither did he fear to spend a night in the forest--he could sleep under a tree as soundly as in his own bed under the rafters of his Father's cabin.

It was warm dry weather, and he had a hunch of bread in his pocket; there was nothing therefore to be afraid of except Indians, and his Father said there were none in the neighbourhood at present.
Jem's mind would have been quite easy on his own account, but he was on his way through the forest to a village on the farther boundary to obtain some medicine for his sick Mother, which the doctor had desired she might have without fail that very night.

Our hero, though but eleven years old, had just finished a long day's work, and it was already dusk, but he loved his Mother dearly, and gladly volunteered for the ten-mile walk to fetch the medicine; he did not even wait to eat his supper, but, putting it in his pocket to munch on the way, trotted off on his errand.
Jem's Father was a small farmer, who had built his own log cabin and cleared his own fields, with no other assistance than that of his little son; this was, however, by no means small, for frontier boys are, of necessity, brought up to be helpful, hardy, and self-denying.

Jem therefore felt his life of incessant labour and deprivation no hardship: he was as happy and merry as the day was long.