Through the early summer they waited for signs of returning health to their guest, but neither the most watchful care nor the most tender nursing could keep the strength from gradually waning.

"She is fretting her heart out. That's the chief cause of this terrible restlessness," said Alan Ruthven to his friend, who was visiting at the Hall.

"Partly," replied Charrington gloomily, "but not altogether, I fear. This restlessness is symptomatic. We must have Bruce Fraser out again. But if we only could get track of Boyle it would greatly help. She wrote yesterday to her great friend, Miss Robertson, who, more than anyone, has kept in touch with him."

"Charrington," inquired Alan hesitatingly, "would you advise that he should be looked up? Of course, you credit me with being perfectly disinterested. I gave up my dream some time ago, you know."

"Oh, certainly, Ruthven, I know, but—"

"You fear I'm prejudiced. Well, I confess I am. I hate to think of a girl like that having anything to do with a man unworthy of her, as from what you have told me of him he must be."

"Unworthy!" cried Jack. "Did I ever call him unworthy? It depends upon what you mean. He gambles. He has terrific passions; but he's a man through and through, and he's clean and honourable."

"Ah," said Ruthven, drawing a deep breath, "then would to Heaven she could find him! For this fretting is like a fever in her bones."

"At present, we can only wait for an answer to her letter."

And so they waited, each one of the little group vying with the other in providing interest and amusement for the weary, restless, fevered girl. Often, at the first, the old impatience would break out, mostly in her talk with Charrington, at rare times to her hostess, too, but at such times followed by quick penitence.

"Dear Lady Ruthven," she said one day after one of her little outbreaks, "I wish I were like you. You are so sweetly good and so perfectly self-controlled. Even I cannot wear out your patience. You must have been born good and sweet."

For a few moments Lady Ruthven was silent, her mind going back swiftly to long gone years. "No, dear," she said gently; "I have much to be thankful for. It was a hard lesson and slowly learned, but He was patient and bore long with me. And He is still bearing."

"Tell me how you learned," asked Iola timidly, and then Lady Ruthven told her life story, without tears, without repinings, while Iola wondered. That story Iola never forgot, and the influence of it never departed from her. Never were the days quite so bad again, but every day while she struggled to subdue her impatience even in thought, she kept looking for word from across the sea with a longing so intense that all in the house came to share it with her.

"Oh! if we only knew where to get him!" groaned Jack Charrington to her one day, for to Jack, who was the only link with her happy past, she had opened her heart. "Why does he keep away?" he added bitterly.

"It is my fault, Jack," she replied. "He is not to blame. No one is to blame but me. But he will come some day. I feel sure he will come, I only hope he may be in time. He would greatly grieve if—"

"Hush, Iola. Don't say it. I can't bear to have you say it. You are getting better. Why, you walked out yesterday quite smartly."

"Some days I am so well," she replied, unwilling to grieve him. "I would like him to see me first on one of my good days. I am sure to hear soon now."

They had hardly turned to enter the house when they saw a messenger wearing the uniform of the Telegraph Department approaching.

"Oh, Jack!" she cried, "there it is!"

"Come, Iola," said Jack, almost sternly, "come in and sit down." So saying, he brought her into the library and made her recline upon the couch, in that sunny room near the window where many of her waking hours were spent.

It was Alan who took the message. They all followed him into the library. "Shall I open it?" he asked, with an anxious look at Iola.

"Yes," she said faintly, laying both hands upon her heart.

Lady Ruthven came to her side. "Iola, darling," she said, taking both her hands in hers, "it is good to feel that God's arms are about us always."

"Yes, dear Lady Ruthven," replied the girl, regaining her composure; "I'm learning. I'm not afraid."

Opening, Alan read the message, smiled, and handed it to her. She read the slip, handed it to Jack, closed her eyes, and, smiling, lay back upon her couch. "God is good," she whispered, as Lady Ruthven bent over her. "You were right. Teach me how to trust Him better."

"Are you all right, Iola?" said Jack, anxiously feeling her pulse.

"Quite right, Jack, dear," she said.

"Then hooray!" cried Jack, starting up. "Let's see, 'Coming Silurian seventh. Barney.'" he read aloud. "The seventh was yesterday. Six days. She'll be in on the thirteenth. Ought to be here by Monday at latest."

"Saturday, Jack," said Iola, opening her eyes.

"Well, we'll plan for Monday. We're not going to be disappointed. Meantime, you're not to fret." And he frowned sternly down upon her.

"Fret?" she cried, looking up brightly. "Never more, Jack. I shall never fret again in all my life. I'm going to build up for these five days, every hour, every minute. I want Barney to see me well."

It was a marvel to all the house how she kept her word. Every hour, every minute, she appeared to gain strength. She ate with relish and slept like a child. The old feverish restlessness left her, and she laid aside many of her invalid ways.

"You are going down to Glasgow to-morrow, I suppose, Charrington?" said Alan on Thursday, after the Silurian had been reported.

"I've just been thinking," replied Jack, with careful deliberation, "that it would be almost better you should go, Ruthven. You see you're the man of the house, and it would be easier for a stranger to tell him."

"Come, Charrington," replied his friend, "you don't often play the coward. You've simply got to go. But why should you tell?"

"Tell? He'll see it in my face. That last report of Bruce Fraser's he would read in my eyes. I see the ghastly words yet, 'Quite hopeless. Heart seriously involved. Cannot be long delayed.' I say, old man, I suppose I ought to go, but you've got to come along and make talk. I'll simply blubber right out when I see him. You know I'm awfully fond of the old boy."

"I say, Charrington, I've got it! Take my aunt with you."

Jack gasped. "By Jove! The very thing! It's rough on her, but she's the saintly kind that delights to bear other people's burdens."

And so it was arranged that Jack and Lady Ruthven should meet the boat and bring Barney, with all speed, to Ruthven Hall.

At the Silurian's gangway Jack received his friend with outstretched hands, crying, "Barney, old boy, we're glad to see you! Here, let me present you to Lady Ruthven, at whose house Iola is staying." With feverish haste he hurried Barney through the crowds, bustling hither and thither about his luggage and giving himself not a moment for conversation till they were seated in the first-class apartment carriage that was to carry them to Craigraven. But they had hardly got settled in their places when the conversation, in spite of all Jack's efforts, dropped to silence.

"You have bad news for me," said Barney, looking Lady Ruthven steadily in the face. "Has anything happened?"

"No, Dr. Boyle," replied Lady Ruthven, a little more quickly than was her wont, "but—" and here she paused, shrinking from delivering the mortal stab, "but we are anxious about our dear Iola."

"Tell me the worst, Lady Ruthven," said Barney.

"That is all. We are very anxious. It is her lungs chiefly and her heart. But she is very bright and very hopeful. It is better she should be kept so."

Barney listened with face growing grey, his eyes looking out of their deep sockets with the piteous, mute appeal of an animal stricken to death. He moistened his lips and tried to speak, but, failing, kept his eyes fixed on Lady Ruthven's face as if seeking relief. Charrington turned his head away.

"We feel thankful for her great courage," said Lady Ruthven, in her sweet, calm voice, "and for her peace of mind."

At last Barney found his voice. "Does she suspect anything?" he asked hoarsely.

"I think she must, but she has said nothing. She has been eager all summer to get back to her home—to you—to those she loved. She will rejoice to see you."

Suddenly Barney dropped his face into his hands with a low, long moan. Jack looked out upon the fleeting landscape dimmed by the tears he dared not wipe away. A long silence followed while, drop by drop, Barney drank his cup to the bitter dregs.

"We try to think of the bright side," at length said Lady Ruthven gently.

Barney lifted his face from his hands, looked at her in dumb misery.

"There is the bright side," she continued, "the side of the immortal hope. We like to think of the better country. That is our real home. There, only, are our treasures safe." She was giving him time to get hold of himself after the first deadly stab. But Barney made no reply except to gravely bow. "It is, indeed, a better country," she added softly as if to herself, "the only place we immortals can call home." Then she rose. "Come, Jack," she said, "I think Dr. Boyle would like to be alone." Before she turned away to another section of the carriage, she offered him her hand with a grave, pitying smile.

Barney bowed reverently over her hand. "I am grateful to you," he said brokenly, "believe me." His face was contorted with the agony that filled his soul. A quick rush of tears rendered her speechless and in silence they turned away from him, and for the long hour that followed they left him with his grief.

When they came back they found him with face grave and steady, carrying the air of one who has fought his fight and has not been altogether beaten. And with that same steady face he reached the great door of Ruthven Hall.

"Jack, you will take Dr. Boyle to his room," said Lady Ruthven; "I shall see Iola and send for him." But just then her daughter came down the stairs. "Mamma," she said in a low, quick tone, "she wants him at once."

"Yes, dear, I know," replied her mother, "but it will be better that I—"

But there was a light cry, "Barney!" and, looking up, they all saw, standing at the head of the great staircase, a figure slight and frail, but radiant. It was Iola.

"Pardon me, Lady Ruthven," said Barney, and was off three steps at a time.

"Come, children." Swiftly Lady Ruthven motioned them into the library that opened off the hall, where they stood gazing at each other, awed and silent.

"Heaven help them!" at length gasped Jack.

"Let go my arm, Dr. Charrington," said Miss Ruthven. "You are hurting me."

"Your pardon, a thousand times. I didn't know. This is more than I can well stand."

"It will be well to leave them for a time, Dr. Charrington," said Lady Ruthven, with a quiet dignity that subdued all emotion and recalled them to self-control. "You will see that Dr. Boyle gets to his room?"

"I shall go up with you, Lady Ruthven, a little later," replied Jack. "Yes, I confess," he continued, answering Miss Ruthven's look, "I am a coward. I am afraid to see him. He takes things tremendously. He was quite mad about her years ago, fiercely mad about her, and when the break came it almost ruined him. How he will stand this, I don't know, but I am afraid to see him."

"This will be a terrible strain for her, Lady Ruthven," said Alan. "It should not be prolonged, do you think?"

"It is well that they should be alone for a time," she replied, her own experience making her wise in the ways of the breaking heart.

When with that quick rush Barney reached the head of the stairs Iola moved toward him with arms upraised. "Barney! Barney! Have you come to me at last?" she cried.

A single, searching glance into her face told him the dread truth. He took her gently into his arms and, restraining his passionate longing to crush her to him, lifted her and held her carefully, tenderly, gazing into her glowing, glorious eyes the while. "Where?" he murmured.

"This door, Barney."

He entered the little boudoir off her bedroom and laid her upon a couch he found there. Then, without a word, he put his cheek close to hers upon the pillow, murmuring over and over, "Iola—Iola—my love—my love!"

"Why, Barney," she cried, with a little happy laugh, "don't tremble so. Let me look at you. See, you silly boy, I am quite strong and calm. Look at me, Barney," she pleaded, "I am hungry to look at your face. I've only seen it in my dreams for so long." She raised herself on her arm and lifted his face from the pillow. "Now let me sit up. I shall never see enough of you. Never! Never! Oh, how wicked and how foolish I was!"

"It was I who was wicked," said Barney bitterly, "wicked and selfish and cruel to you and to others."

"Hush!" She laid her hand on his lips. "Sit here beside me. Now, Barney, don't spoil this one hour. Not one word of the past. You were a little hard, you know, dear, but you were right, and I knew you were right. I was wrong. But I thought there would be more in that other life. Even at its best it was spoiled. I wanted you. The great 'Lohengrin' night when they brought me out so many times—"

"I was there," interrupted Barney, his voice still full of bitter pain.

"I know. I saw you. Oh! wasn't that a night? Didn't I sing? It was for you, Barney. My soul, my heart, my body, went all into Ortrud that night."

"It was a great, a truly great thing, Iola."

"Yes," said Iola, with a proud little laugh, "I think the dear old Spectator was right when it said it was a truly great performance, but I waited for you, and waited and waited, and when you didn't come I found that all the rest was nothing to me without you. Oh, how I wanted you, Barney, then—and ever since!"

"If I had only known!" groaned Barney.

"Now, Barney, we are not to go back. We are to take all the joy out of this hour. Promise me, Barney, you will not blame yourself—now or ever—promise me, promise me!" she cried, eagerly insistent.

"But I do, Iola."

"Oh, Barney! promise me this, we will look forward, not back, will you, Barney?" The pleading in her voice swept away all feeling but the desire to gratify her.

"I promise you, Iola, and I keep my word."

"Yes, you do, Barney. Oh, thank you, darling." She wreathed her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his breast. "Oh!" she said with a deep sigh, "I shall rest now—rest—rest. That's what I've been longing for. I could not rest, Barney."

Barney shuddered. Only too well he knew the meaning of that fateful restlessness, but he only held her closer to him, his heart filled with a fierce refusal of his lot.

"There is no one like you, Barney, after all," she murmured, nestling down with a delicious sigh of content. "You are so strong. You will make me strong, I know. I feel stronger already, stronger than for months."

Again Barney shuddered at that cruel deception, so characteristic of the treacherous disease.

"Why don't you speak to me, Barney? You haven't said a word except just 'Iola, Iola, Iola.' Haven't you anything else to say, sir? After your long silence you might—" She raised her head and looked into his eyes with her old saucy smile.

"There is nothing to say, Iola. What need to speak when I can hold you like this? But you must not talk too much."

"Tell me something about yourself," she cried. "What? Where? How? Why? No, not why. I don't want that, but all the rest."

"It is hardly worth while, Iola," he replied, "and it would take a long time."

"Oh, yes, think what a delicious long time. All the time there is. All the day and every day. Oh, Barney! does one want more Heaven than this? Tell me about Margaret and—yes—and Dick," she shyly added. "Are they well and happy?"

"Now, darling," said Barney, stroking her hair; "just rest there and I'll tell you everything. But you must not exhaust yourself."

"Go on then, Barney," she replied with a sigh of ineffable bliss, nestling down again. "Oh, lovely rest!"

Then Barney told her of Margaret and Dick and of their last few days together, making light of Dick's injury and making much of the new joy that had come to them all. "And it was your letter that did it all, Iola," he said.

"No," she replied gently, "it was our Father's goodness. I see things so differently, Barney. Lady Ruthven has taught me. She is an angel from Heaven, and, oh, what she has done for me!"

"I, too, Iola, have great things to be thankful for."

A tap came to the door and, in response to their invitation, Lady Ruthven, with Jack in the background, appeared.

"Dinner will be served in a few minutes, Iola, and I am sure Dr. Boyle would like to go to his room. You can spare him, I suppose?"

"No, I can't spare him, but I will if you let me go down to-night to dinner."

"Is it wise, do you think?" said Lady Ruthven gravely. "You must save your strength now, you know."

"Oh, but I am strong. Just for to-night," she pleaded. "I'm not going to be an invalid to-night. I'm going to forget all about it. I am going to eat a good dinner and I'm going to sing, too. Jack, tell them I can go down. Barney, you will take me down. You may carry me, if you like. I am going, Jack," she continued with something of her old imperious air.

Barney searched her face with a critical glance, holding his fingers upon her wrist. She was growing excited. "Well, I think she might go down for a little. What do you think, Charrington? You know best."

"If she is good she might," said Jack doubtfully. "But she must promise to be quiet."

"Jack, you're a dear. You're an angel. I'll be good—as good as I can." With which extremely doubtful promise they had to content themselves.

At dinner none was more radiant that Iola. Without effort or strain her wit and gaiety bubbled over, till Barney, watching her in wonder, asked himself whether in his first impression of her he had not been mistaken. As he still watched and listened his wonder grew. How brilliantly clever she was! How quick her wit! How exquisitely subtle her fancy! Her mind, glowing like a live coal, seemed to kindle by mere contact the minds about her, till the whole table, catching her fire, scintillated with imagination's divine flame. Through it all Barney became conscious of a change in her. She was brighter than of old, cleverer by far. Her conversation was that of a highly cultured woman of the world. But it was not these that made the change. There was a new quality of soul in her. Patience had wrought her perfect work. She exhaled that exquisite aroma of the spirit disciplined by pain. She was less of the earth, earthy. The airs of Heaven were breathing about her.

To Barney, with his new sensitiveness to the spiritual, this change in Iola made her inexpressibly dear. It seemed as if he had met her in a new and better country where neither had seen the other before. And yet it filled him with an odd sense of loss. It was as if earth were losing its claim in her, as if her earthward affinities were refining into the heavenly. She was keenly interested in the story of Dick's work and, in spite of his reluctance to talk, she so managed the conversation, that, before he was aware, Barney was in the full tide of the thrilling tale of his brother's heroic service to the men in the mountains of Western Canada. As Barney waxed eloquent, picturing the perils and privations, the discouragements and defeats, the toils and triumphs of missionary life, the lustrous eyes grew luminous with deep inner light, the beautiful face, its ivory pallor relieved by a touch of carmine upon lip and cheek, appeared to shed a very radiance of glory that drew and held the gaze of the whole company.

"Oh, what splendid work!" she cried. "How good to be a man! But it's better," she added, with a quick glance at Barney and a little shy laugh, "to be a woman."

It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that arrested Lady Ruthven's attention and made her bring the dinner somewhat abruptly to a close.

"Oh, Lady Ruthven, must we go?" cried Iola, as her hostess made a move to rise. "What a delightful dinner we have had! Now you are not going to send me away just yet. 'After dinner sit a while,' you know, and I believe I feel like singing to-night."

"My dear, my dear," said Lady Ruthven, "do you think you should exert yourself any more? You have had an exciting day. What does your doctor say?"

"Barney?"

"Barney, indeed!" echoed Jack indignantly. "Oh, the ingratitude of the female heart! Here for all these weeks I have—"

"Forgive me, Jack. I am quite sure you won't be hard-hearted enough to banish me."

"An hour on the library couch, whence one can look upon the sea, in an atmosphere of restful quiet, listening to cheerful but not too exciting conversation," said Jack gravely.

"And music, Doctor?" inquired Iola, with mock humility.

"Well, I'll sing a little myself," replied Jack.

"Oh, my dear Iola," cried Miss Ruthven, "hasten to bed, I beg of you, and save us all. And yet, do you know, I rather like to hear Dr. Charrington sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in the Highlands last year," she continued with mischievous gravity.

"Ah," said Jack, much flattered, "I don't quite—"

"Oh, the horn, you know."

"Wretch! Now I refuse outright to sing."

"Really? And after we had prepared ourselves for the—ah—experience."

"How do you feel now, Iola?" said Jack, quietly placing his fingers upon her pulse.

"Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen." And she ran up her chromatics in a voice rich and strong and clear.

"Well, this is most wonderful!" exclaimed Jack. "Her pulse is strong, even, steady. Her respiration is normal."

"I told you!" cried Iola triumphantly. "Now you will let me sing—not a big song, but just that wee Scotch thing I learned from old Jennie. Barney's mother used to sing it."

"My dear Iola," entreated Lady Ruthven, "do you think you should venture? Do you think she should, Dr. Boyle?"

"Don't ask me," said Barney. "I should forbid it were it anyone else."

"But it isn't anyone else," persisted Iola, "and my doctor says yes. I'll only hum, Jack."

"Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeggios, double-stoppings, and such frills."

She took her guitar. "I'll sing this for Barney's dear mother," she said. And in a voice soft, rich and full of melody, and with perfect reproduction of the quaint old-fashioned cadences and quavers, she sang the Highland lament, "O'er the Moor."

"O'er the moor I wander lonely, Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; Where are all the joys I cherished? With my darling they have perished, And they will return no more.

"I loved thee first, I loved thee only, Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; I loved thee from the day I met thee. What care I though all forget thee? I will love thee evermore."

And then, before anyone could utter a word of protest, she said, "You never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll sing it for you." And in a low, soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint little song that described so fittingly her own experience, "My Heart's Rest."

"I had wandered far, and the wind was cold, And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old, When the Master came to close His fold And saw that one had strayed.

"Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill, And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till The Master's voice searched vale and hill: I heard and fled afraid.

"Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on. And the stars went out, and the day was gone, Then the Master found, laid me upon His bosom, unafraid."

A hush followed upon her song. Far down the valley the moon rose red out of the sea, the sweet night air, breathing its fragrance of mignonette and roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open window as it passed. A late thrush was singing its night song of love to its mate.

"I feel as if I could sleep now," said Iola. "Barney, carry me." Like a tired child she nestled down in Barney's strong arms. "Good-night, dear friends, all," she said. "What a happy evening it has been." Then, with a little cry, "Oh, Barney! hold me. I'm slipping," she locked her arms tight about his neck, lifting her face to his. "Goodnight, Barney, my love, my own love," she whispered, her breath coming in gasps. "How good you are to me—how good to have you. Now kiss me—quick—don't wait—again, dear—good-night." Her arms slipped down from his neck. Her head sank upon his breast.

"Iola!" he cried, in a voice strident with fear and alarm, glancing down into her face. He carried her to the open window. "Oh, my God! My God! She is gone! Oh, my love, not yet! not yet!"

But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry of the broken heart, and the singing voice was forever still from words or songs that mortal ears could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. The tired lids rested upon the lustrous eyes from which all light had fled. The weary heart was quiet at last. Gently, Barney placed her on the couch, where she lay as if asleep, then, standing upright, he gazed round upon them with eyes full of dumb anguish till they understood, and one by one they turned and left him alone with his dead.

For two days Barney wandered about the valley, his spirit moving in the midst of a solemn and mysterious peace. The light of life for him had not gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. Heaven had not snatched her away. She had brought Heaven near.

At first he was minded to carry her back with him to the old home and lay her in the churchyard there. But Lady Ruthven took him to the spot where her dead lay.

"We should be glad that she should sleep beside our dear ones here," she said. "You know we love her dearly."

"It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady Ruthven," Barney replied, his heart responding with glad acceptance to the suggestion. "She loved this valley, and it was here she first found rest."

"Yes, she loves this valley," replied Lady Ruthven, refusing to accept Barney's tense. To her, death made no change. "And here she found peace and perfect love again."

A single line in the daily press brought a few close friends from London to bury her. Old Sir Walter himself was present. He had taken such pride in her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as a daughter, and with him stood Herr Lindau, the German impresario, under whose management she had made her London debut in "Lohengrin." There in the sunny valley they laid her down, their faces touched with smiles that struggled with their tears. But on his face who loved her best of all there were no tears, only a look of wonder, and of gladness, and of peace.



XXIII

THE LAST CALL

Dick was discouraged and, a rare thing with him, his face showed his discouragement. In the war against the saloon and vice in its various forms he felt that he stood almost alone.

At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel Daggett, hailed him. He hesitated a moment, then entered. A newspaper office was familiar territory to him, as was also that back country that stretches to the horizon from the back door of every printing office. The Clarion was the organ of the political Outs as The Pioneer was that of the Ins. Politics in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage of development wherein parties differentiate themselves from each other upon great principles. The Ins were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly on that ground.

"Well," said Daggett, with an air of gentle patronage, "how did the meeting go last night?"

"I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you there. It didn't go at all."

"Yes," replied Daggett, "your men are all right in their opinions, but they never allow their opinions to interfere with business. I could have told you every last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, couldn't stand up against his wholesale grocer. Religion mustn't interfere with sales. The saloons and 'red lights' pay cash; therefore, quit your nonsense and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and perfumes to the 'red lights' than to all the rest of the town and country put together. Goring's chief won't stand any monkeying with politics. Leave things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to imperil their husbands' business."

Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He was down, but he was not yet completely out. Only too well he knew the truth of Daggett's review of the situation.

"There is something in what you say," he conceded, "but—"

"Oh, come now," interrupted Daggett, "you know better than that. This town and this country is run by the whiskey ring. Why, there's Hickey, he daren't arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates whiskey and the whole outfit worse than poison. Why doesn't he? The Honourable McKenty, M. P., drops him a hint. Hickey is told to mind his own business and leave the saloon and the 'red lights' alone, and so poor Hickey is sitting down trying to discover what his business is ever since. The safe thing is to do nothing."

"You seem to know all about it," said Dick. "What's the good of your paper? Why don't you get after these men?"

"My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and ask that? It is quite true that The Clarion is the champion of liberty, the great moulder of public opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, not being an endowed institution, it is forced to consider advertising space. Advertising, circulation, subscriptions, these are the considerations that determine newspaper policy."

Dick gazed ruefully out of the window. "It's true. It's terribly true," he said. "The people don't want anything better than they have. The saloon must continue to be the dominant influence here for a time. But you hear me, Daggett, a better day is coming, and if you want an opportunity to do, not the heroic thing only, but the wise thing, jump into a campaign for reform. Do you think Canadians are going to stand this long? This is a Christian country, I tell you. The Church will take a hand."

Daggett smiled a superior smile. "Coming? Yes, sure, but meantime The Pioneer spells Church with a small c, and even the Almighty's name with a small g."

"I tell you, Daggett," said Dick hotly, "The Pioneer's day is past. I see signs and I hear rumblings of a storm that will sweep it, and you, too, unless you change, out of existence."

"Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on that storm when it arrives. But the rumblings are somewhat distant. I, too, see signs, but the time is not yet. By the way, where is your brother?"

"I don't see much of him. He is up and down the line, busy with his sick and running this library and clubroom business."

"Yes," replied Daggett thoughtfully, "I hear of him often. The railroad men and the lumbermen grovel to him. Look here, would he run in this constituency?"

Dick laughed at him. "Not he. Why, man, he's straight. You couldn't buy him. Oh, I know the game."

Daggett was silenced for some moments.

"Hello!" said Daggett, looking out of the window, "here is our coming Member." He opened the door. "Mr. Hull, let me introduce you to the Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral reformer. Mr. Boyle—Mr. Hull, the coming Member for this constituency."

"I hope he will make a better fist of it than the present incumbent," said Dick a little gruffly, for he had little respect for either of the political parties or their representatives. "I must get along. But, Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with this beastly gambling-hell business." With this he closed the door.

"Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon," said Hull, "but a little unpractical, eh?"

"Yes," agreed Daggett, "he is somewhat visionary. But I begin to think he is on the right track."

"How? What do you mean?"

"I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, and it's time this country was getting civilized. That fool editor of The Pioneer thinks that because he keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he can keep back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains enough to last him over night. Boyle says he sees the signs of a coming storm. I believe I see them, too."

"Signs?" inquired Hull.

"Yes, the East is taking notice. The big corporations are being held responsible for their men, their health, and their morals. 'Mexico,' too, has something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this Boyle's brother is taking a hand, I believe."

"The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him."

"Do you know him?"

"Not well."

"You get next him quick. He's the coming man in this country, don't forget it."

Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself was a man of considerable wealth. He was an old timer and cherished the old timer's contempt for the tenderfoot.

"All right," said Daggett, "you may sniff. I've watched him and I've discovered this, that what he wants to do he does. He's an old poker player. He has cleaned out 'Mexico' half a dozen times. He has quit poker now, they say, and he's got 'Mexico' going queer."

"What's his game?"

"Can't make it out quite. He has turned religious, they say. Spoke here at a big meeting last spring, quite dramatic, I believe. I wasn't there. Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of course, no man would listen to that, so he's putting libraries into the camps and establishing clubrooms."

"By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the boys, what does 'Mexico' think of it?"

"Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got them going his way. He's a doctor, you know, has nursed a lot of them, and they swear by him. He's a sign, I tell you. So is 'Mexico.'"

"What about 'Mexico'?"

"Well, you know 'Mexico' has been the head centre of the saloon outfit, divides the spoil and collects the 'rents.' But I say he's acting queer."

Hull was at once on the alert. "That's interesting. You are sure of your facts? It might be all right to corral those chaps. The virtue campaign is bound to come. A little premature yet, but that doctor fellow is to be considered."

But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. The whole political machinery of both parties was too completely under the control of the saloon and "red light" influence to be easily emancipated. The business interests of the little towns along the line were so largely dependent upon the support of the saloon and the patronage of vice that few had the courage to openly espouse and seriously champion a campaign for reform. And while many, perhaps the majority, of the men employed in the railroad and in the lumber camps, though they were subject to periodic lapses from the path of sobriety and virtue, were really opposed to the saloon and its allies, yet they lacked leadership and were, therefore, unreliable. It was at this point that the machine in each party began to cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to the influence of Dr. Boyle. Bitter enemies though they were, they united their forces in an endeavour to have the doctor removed. The wires ordinarily effective were pulled with considerable success, when the manipulators met with an unexpected obstacle in General Manager Fahey. Upon him the full force of the combined influences available was turned, but to no purpose. He was too good a railway manager to be willing to lose the services of a man "who knew his work and did it right, a man who couldn't be bullied or blocked, and a man, bedad, who could play a good game of poker."

"He stays while I stay," was Fahey's last word in reply to an influential director, labouring in the interests of the party machine.

Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another line of attack. "Mexico" and the organization of which he was the head were instructed to "run him out." Receiving his orders, "Mexico" called his agents together and invited their opinions. A sharp cleavage immediately developed, one party led by "Peachy" being strongly in favour of obeying the orders, the other party, leaderless and scattering, strongly opposed. Discussion waxed bitter. "Mexico" sat silent, watchful, impassive. At length, "Peachy," in full swing of an impassioned and sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, his person and his ways, was called abruptly to order by a peremptory word from his chief.

"Shut up your fool head, 'Peachy.' To hear you talk you'd think you'd do something."

A grim laugh at "Peachy's" expense went round the company.

"Do somethin'?" snarled "Peachy," stung to fury, "I'll do somethin' one of these days. I've stood you all I want."

"Peachy's" oaths were crude in comparison with "Mexico's," but his fury lent them force. "Mexico" turned his baleful, gleaming eyes upon him.

"Do something? Meaning?"

"Never mind," growled "Peachy."

"Git!" "Mexico" pointed a long finger to the door. It was a word of doom, and they all knew it, for it meant not simply dismissal from that meeting, but banishment from the company of which "Mexico" was head, and that meant banishment from the line of the Crow's Nest Pass. "Peachy" was startled.

"You needn't be so blanked swift," he growled apologetically. "I didn't mean for to—"

"You git!" repeated "Mexico," turning the pointing finger from the door to the face of the startled wretch.

With a fierce oath "Peachy" reached for his gun, but hesitated to draw. "Mexico" moved not a line of his face, not a muscle of his body, except that his head went a little back and the heavy eyelids fell somewhat over the piercing black eyes.

"You dog!" he ground out through his clenched teeth, "you know you can't bring out your gun. I know you. You poor cur! You thought you'd sell me up to the other side! I know your scheme! Now git, and quick!"

The command came sharp like a snap of an animal's teeth, while "Mexico's" hand dropped swiftly to his side. Instantly "Peachy" rose and backed slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of a savage beast. At the door he paused.

"'Mexico,'" he said, "is this the last between you and me?"

"Mexico" kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon the face of the man backing out of the door.

"Git out, you cur!" he said, with contemptuous deliberation.

"Take that, then."

Like a flash, "Mexico" threw himself to one side. Two shots rang out as one. A slight smile curled "Mexico's" lip.

"Got him that time, I reckon."

"Hurt, 'Mexico'?" anxiously inquired his friends.

"Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight." The bartender and some others came running in with anxious faces. "Never mind, boys," said "Mexico." "'Peachy' was foolin' with his gun; it went off and hurt him some."

"Say, there's blood here!" said the bartender. "He's been bleedin' bad."

"Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git to business."

The bartender and his friends took the hint and retired.

"Now, boys, listen to me," said "Mexico" impressively, leaning over the table. "Right here I want to say that the doctor is a friend of mine, and the man that touches him touches me." There was an ominous silence.

"Just as you say, 'Mexico,'" said one of the men, "but I see the finish of our game in these parts. The doctor's got the boys a-goin' and you know he ain't the kind that quits."

"You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government of this country yet. His game's the winnin' game. Any fool can see that. But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the present we stay."

As the meeting broke up, "Mexico's" friends warned him against "Peachy."

"Pshaw! 'Peachy'!" said "Mexico" contemptuously. "He couldn't hold his gun steady at me."

"He's all right behind a tree, though, an' there's lots of 'em round."

But "Mexico" only spat out his contempt for anything that "Peachy" could do, and went calmly on his way, "keeping the boys in line." But he began to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of feeling over which he could exercise no control. Not that there was any lack of readiness on the part of the boys to "line up" at the word, but there was no corresponding readiness in pledging their support to the "same old party." There was, on the contrary, a very marked reserve on the part of the men who formerly, especially after the lining up process had been several times repeated, had been distinguished for unlimited enthusiasm for all "Mexico" represented. They "lined up" still, but beyond this they did not go.

The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious of this change in the attitude of the men he had always counted upon to do his bidding at the polls. "It's that cursed doctor!" he exclaimed to McKenty, the Member for the district. "He's been working a deep game. Of course, his brother's putting up all kinds of a fight, but we expect that and we know how to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell you I'm afraid of him."

"Pshaw! He hasn't got any backing," said McKenty.

"How?"

"Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't make anything go without grease." McKenty spoke out of considerable experience.

"That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the doctor has grease of another kind. This library and clubroom business is catching the boys all round."

"I've heard about it," said McKenty. "I guess the Government could take a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of thing, too."

"That's all right," replied the editor. "Might do some good. But you can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his clubs altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one doctor, and night and day he's on the road. By Jove! he's everywhere. He's got no end of stay, confound him! I tell you he's a winner. He can get a thousand men in a week to back him for anything he says."

McKenty thought deeply for some moments. "Well," he said, finally, "something has got to be done. We can't afford, you and I, at this stage to get out of the game. What about 'Mexico'?"

"'Mexico'!" exclaimed the editor, breaking out into profanity. "There's the weakest spot in the whole combination, just where it used to be strongest. The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, 'Mexico' 'd be after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else when he visits town. The best in 'Mexico's' saloon isn't quite good enough for the doctor. No, sir! He's got a line on 'Mexico,' all right."

"Can't you shake him loose? There are the usual ways, you know, of loosening up people."

"But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the usual ways won't work here. This combination is something quite unusual. I believe there's some religion in it."

McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke.

"I tell you I mean it," said the editor, testily. "The doctor's got it hard. Talk about conversion! You weren't at that meeting last spring—I was—when he got up and preached us a sermon that would make your hair curl." And the editor proceeded to give a graphic account of the meeting in question.

"Well," said McKenty, "I guess we can't touch the doctor. But 'Mexico,' pshaw! we can keep 'Mexico' solid. We've got to. He knows too much. You've simply got to get after him."

This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do without delay, for, looking out through the dusty windows of The Pioneer office, he perceived "Mexico" sauntering down the other side of the street.

"There he is now," he cried, going toward the door. "Hi! 'Mexico'!" he called, and "Mexico" came slouching across. "Ugly looking beggar, ain't he?" said the editor. "Jaw like a bulldog. Morning, 'Mexico'!"

"Mornin'," grunted "Mexico," nodding first to the editor and then to McKenty.

"How is things, 'Mexico'?" said the editor, in his most ingratiating manner.

"How?"

"How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's coming on, you know."

"Comin' on soon?"

"Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. We ought to be ready, though."

"Can't be too soon," said "Mexico."

"How is that?"

"Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of fashion," with a glance at the schapps which the editor delighted to wear. "People beginnin' to go to meetin' in this country."

"I hear you're going yourself a little, 'Mexico,'" said McKenty, facetiously.

"Mexico" turned his eyes slowly upon the Member.

"Anything to say agin it?"

"Not at all, 'Mexico,' not at all. Good thing; but they say the doctor's got the boys rather away from you, that you're losing your grip."

"Who says?"

"Oh, I hear it everywhere."

"Guess it must be right, then," replied "Mexico," grimly.

"And they say he's got a line on you, 'Mexico,' getting you right up to the mourners' bench."

"Do, eh?"

"Look here, 'Mexico,'" said McKenty, dropping his bantering tone, "you're not going to let the blank preacher-doctor combination work you, are you?"

"Don't know about that."

"You don't?"

"No. But I do know that there ain't any other combination kin. I'm working for myself in this game. If any combination wants to shove my way, they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to shove, I guess. Me the same. You fellers ain't any interest in me, I reckon."

"Well, do you imagine the doctor has?"

"Mexico" paused, then said thoughtfully, "Blanked if I can git on to his game!"

"Oh, come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? He's working you. You don't really think he has your interest at heart?"

"Can't quite tell." "Mexico" wore a vexed and thoughtful air. "Wish I could. If I thought so I'd—"

"What?"

"Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal life!" There was a sudden gleam from under "Mexico's" heavy brows and a ring in his usually drawling voice, that sufficiently attested his earnestness. "There ain't too many of that kind raound."

"What do you think of that?" inquired the editor, as "Mexico" sauntered out of the door.

"Think? I think there's a law against gamblers in this province and it ought to be enforced."

"That means war," said the editor.

"Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole trouble, I can see. I'd give a thousand dollars down to see him out of the country."

But there was no sign that the doctor had any desire to leave the country, and all who knew him were quite certain that until he should so desire, leave he would not. All through the winter he went about his work with a devotion that taxed even his superb physical strength to the uttermost. In addition to his work as Medical Superintendent of the railroad he had been asked to take oversight of the new coal mines opening up here and there in the Pass, which brought him no end of both labour and trouble. The managers of the mines held the most primitive ideas in regard to both safety in operating a mine and sanitation of miners' quarters. Consequently, the doctor had to enter upon a long campaign of education. It was an almost hopeless task. The directors were remote from the ground and were unimpressed by the needs so urgently reported by their doctor. The managers on the ground were concerned chiefly with keeping down the expenses of operation. The miners themselves were, as a class, too well accustomed to the wretched conditions under which they lived and worked to make any strenuous objection.

How to bring about a better condition of things became, with the doctor, a constant subject of thought. It was also the theme of conversation on the occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook Hospital, where it had become an established custom for Dick and him to meet since his return from Scotland.

"We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score men, not before," grumbled Barney to Dick and Margaret.

"It's the universal law," replied Dick. "Some men must die for their nation. It's been the way from the first."

"But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry yourself and work yourself to death as you are doing?" said Margaret, anxiously. "You know you can't stand this long. You are not the man you were when you came back."

Barney only smiled. "That would be no great matter," he said, lightly. "But there is no fear of me," he added. "I don't pine for an early death, you know. I've got a lot to live for."

There was silence for a minute or two. They were thinking of the grave in the little churchyard across the sea. Ever since Barney's return, and as often as they met together, they allowed themselves to think and speak freely of the little valley at Craigraven, so full of light and peace, with its grave beside the little church. At first Dick and Margaret shrank from all reference to Iola, and sought to turn Barney's mind from thoughts so full of pain. But Barney would not have it so. Frankly and simply he began to speak of her, dwelling lovingly and tenderly upon all the details of the last days of her life, as he had gathered them from Lady Ruthven, her friend.

"It would be easier for me not to speak of her," he had said on his return, "but I've lost too much to risk the loss of more. I want you to talk of her, and by and by I shall find it easy."

And this they did most loyally, and with tender solicitude for him, till at length the habit grew, so that whenever they came together it only deepened and chastened their joy in each other to keep fresh the memory of her who had filled so large a place, and so vividly, in the life of each of them. And this was good for them all, but especially for Barney. It took the bitterness out of his grief, and much of the pain out of his loss. The memory of that last evening with Iola, and Lady Ruthven's story of the purifying of her spirit, during those last few months, combined to throw about her a radiance such as she had never shed even in the most radiant moments of her life.

"There is only place for gratitude," he said, one evening, to them. "Why should I allow any mean or selfish thought to spoil my memory of her or to hinder the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going was so free from pain, and her last evening so full of joy?"

It was with these feelings in his heart that he went back to the camps to his work among the sick and wounded in body and in heart. And as he went in and out among the men they became conscious of a new spirit in him. His touch on the knife was as sure as ever, his nerve as steady, but while the old reserve still held his lips from overflowing, the words that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch more tender. The terrible restlessness, too, was gone out of his blood. A great calm possessed him. He was always ready for the ultimate demand, prepared to give of his life to the uttermost. To his former care for the physical well-being of the men, he added now a concern for their mental and spiritual good, and hence the system of libraries and clubrooms he had initiated throughout the camps and towns along the line. It mattered not to him that he had to meet the open opposition of the saloon element and the secret hostility of those who depended upon that element for the success of their political schemes. His love of a fight was as strong as ever. At first the men could not fathom his motives, but as men do, they silently and observantly waited for the real motive to emerge. As "Mexico" said, they "couldn't get onto his game." And none of them was more completely puzzled than was "Mexico" himself, but none more fully acknowledged, and more frankly yielded to the fascination of the new spirit and new manner which the doctor brought to his work. At the same time, however, "Mexico" could not rid himself of a suspicion, now and then, that the real game was being kept dark. The day was to come when "Mexico" would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give himself up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, worthy to be followed, who lived not for his own things. But that day was not yet, and "Mexico" was kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing to his mind and injurious to his temper. Day by day reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil and unvarying self-sacrifice, the very magnitude of which made it difficult for "Mexico" to accept it as being sincere.

"What's his game?" he kept asking himself more savagely, as the mystery deepened. "What's in it for him? Is he after McKenty's job?"

One night the doctor came in from a horseback trip to a tie camp twelve miles up the valley, wearied and soaked with the wet snow that had been falling heavily all day. "Mexico" received him with a wrathful affection.

"What the—ah—what makes you go out a night like this?" "Mexico" asked him with indignation, struggling to check his profanity, which he had come to notice the doctor disliked. "I can't get onto you. It's all just d—, that is, cursed foolishness!"

"Look here, 'Mexico,' wait till I get these wet things off and I'll tell you. Now listen," said the doctor, when he sat warm and dry before "Mexico's" fire. "I've been wanting to tell you this for some time." He opened his black bag and took out a New Testament which now always formed a part of his equipment, and finding the place, read the story of the two debtors. "Do you remember, 'Mexico,' the talk I gave you last spring?" "Mexico" nodded. That talk he would not soon forget. "I had a big debt on then. It was forgiven me. He did a lot for me that time, and since then He has piled it up till I feel as if I couldn't live long enough to pay back what I owe." Then he told "Mexico" in a low, reverent tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story of Iola's going. "That's why," he said, when he concluded his tale. "That was a great thing He did for her and for me. And then, 'Mexico,' these poor chaps! they have so little. Who cares for them? That's why I go out on a night like this. And don't you think that's good enough?"

Then "Mexico" turned himself loose for five minutes and let off the sulphurous emotion that had been collecting during the doctor's tale. After he had become coherent again he said with slow emphasis:

"You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me when you want."

"'Mexico,'" replied the doctor, "you know I don't preach at you. I haven't, have I?"

"Blanked if—that is, no, you haven't."

"Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you right here. You are my friend." He put out his hand, which "Mexico" gripped and held fast. "But," continued the doctor, "I want to say that He wants you more than I do, wants to wipe off that debt of yours, wants you for His friend."

"Say, Doc," said "Mexico," drawing back a little from him, "I guess not. That there debt goes back for twenty years, and it's piled out of sight. It never bothers me much except when I see you and hear you talk. It would be a blank—that is, a pretty fine thing to have it cleaned off. But say, Doc, your heap agin mine would be like a sandhill agin that mountain there."

"The size makes no difference to Him, 'Mexico,'" said the doctor, quietly. "He is great enough to wipe out anything. I tell you, 'Mexico,' it's good to get it wiped off. It's simply great!"

"You're right there," said "Mexico," emphatically. Then, as if a sudden suspicion flashed in upon him, "Say, you're not talkin' religion to me, are you? I ain't goin' to die just yet."

"Religion? Call it anything you like, 'Mexico.' All I know is I've got a good thing and I want my friend to have it."

When the doctor was departing next morning "Mexico" stopped him at the door. "I say, Doc, would you mind letting me have that there book of yours for a spell?"

The doctor took it out of his bag. "It's yours, 'Mexico,' and you can bank on it."

The book proved of absorbing interest to "Mexico." He read it openly in the saloon without any sense of incongruity, at first, between the book and the business he was carrying on, but not without very considerable comment on the part of his customers and friends. And what he read became the subject of frequent discussions with his friend, the doctor. The book did its work with "Mexico," as it does with all who give it place, and the first sign of its influence was an uncomfortable feeling in "Mexico's" mind in regard to his business and his habits of life. His discomfort became acute one pay night, after a very successful game of poker in which he had relieved some half a dozen lumbermen of their pay. For the first time in his life his winnings brought him no satisfaction. The great law of love to his brother troubled him. In vain he argued that it was a fair deal and that he himself would have taken his loss without whining. The disturbing thoughts would not down. He determined that he would play no more till he had talked the matter over with his friend, and he watched impatiently for the doctor's return. But that week the doctor failed to appear, and "Mexico" grew increasingly uncertain in his mind and in his temper. It added to his wretchedness not a little when the report reached him that the doctor was confined to his bed in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this news plunged "Mexico" into deepest gloom.

"If he's took to bed," he said, "there ain't much hope, I guess, for they'd never get him there unless he was too far gone to fight 'em off."

But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no anxiety felt in regard to the doctor's illness. He was run down with the fall and winter's work. He had caught cold, a slight inflammation had set up in the bowels, and that was all. The inflammation had been checked and in a few days he would be on his feet again.

"If we could only work a scheme to keep him in bed a month," groaned Dick to his nurse as they stood beside his bed.

"There is, unhappily, no one in authority over him," replied Margaret, "but we'll keep him ill as long as we can. Dr. Cotton," and here she smilingly appealed to the newly appointed assistant, "you will help, I am sure."

"Most certainly. Now we have him down we shall combine to keep him there."

"Yes, a month at the very least," cried Dick.

But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two days he promised them he would be fit again.

"It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against the Medical Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Railway," said Dr. Cotton, "and I think in this case I'll back the former, from what I've seen."

"Ah," replied Margaret, "that is because you haven't known your patient long, Doctor. When he speaks the word of command we simply obey."

And that is just what happened. On the afternoon of the second day, when both the doctor and Dick had gone off to their work and Barney had apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence that reigned over the flat was broken by Ben Fallows coming up the stair with a telegram in his hand.

"It's fer the doctor," said Ben, "an' the messenger said as 'ow 'Mexico' had got shot and—"

Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in which Barney lay. Ben's voice, though not loud, was of a peculiarly penetrating quality. Two words had caught Barney's ear, "Mexico" and "shot."

"Let me have the wire," he said quietly, when Margaret came in.

"I intended to give it to you, Barney," she replied as quietly. "You will do nothing rash, I am sure, and you always know best."

Barney opened the telegram and read, "'Mexico' shot. Bullet not found. Wants doctor to come if possible."

"Dr. Cotton is not in?" inquired Barney.

"He is gone up the Big Horn."

"We can't possibly get him to-night," replied Barney.

Silently they looked at each other, thinking rapidly. They each knew that the other was ready to do the best, no matter at what cost.

"Take my temperature, Margaret." It was nine-nine and one-fifth. "That's not bad," said Barney. "Margaret, I must go. It's for 'Mexico's' life. Yes, and more."

Margaret turned slightly pale. "You know best, Barney," she said, "but it may be your life, you know."

"Yes," he replied gravely. "I take that chance. But I think I ought to take it, don't you?" But Margaret refused to speak. "What do you think, Margaret?" he asked.

"Oh, Barney!" she cried, with passionate protest, "why should you give your life for him?"

"Why?" he repeated slowly. "There was One who gave His life for me. Besides," he added, after a pause, "there's a fair chance that I can get through."

She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. "No, Barney, there's almost no chance, you know and I know, and I can't let you go now!" The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled him. Gravely, earnestly, his eyes searched her face and read her heart. Slowly the crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair face and neck. She buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand upon her head, stroking the golden hair. For some moments they remained thus, silent. Then, refusing to accept the confession of her word and look and act, he said, in a voice grave and kind and tender, "You expect me to do right, Margaret."

A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of renunciation was being pressed to her lips. To the last drop she drained it, then raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright blue eyes looked into his bravely while she answered simply, "You will do what is right, Barney."

Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in. "Didn't know you were so ill. Don't you come. I'm all right. 'Mexico.'" A rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness had evidently reached "Mexico," and he would not have his friend risk his life for him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train was hours late, but a light engine ran up from the Crossing and brought the doctor down.

When he entered the sick man's room "Mexico" glanced into his face. "Good Lord, Doctor!" he cried, "you shouldn't have come! You're worse than me!"

"All right, 'Mexico,'" replied the doctor cheerfully. "I had to come, you know. We can't go back on our friends."

"Mexico" kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's face. His lips began to tremble. He put out his hand and clutched the doctor's hard. "I know now," he said hoarsely, "why He let 'em kill Him."

"Why?"

"Couldn't go back on His friends, eh?"

"You've got it, 'Mexico,' old man. Pretty good, eh?"

"You bet! Now, Doc, get through quick and get to bed."

The bullet was found in the lung and safely extracted. It was a nasty wound and dangerous, but in half an hour "Mexico" was resting quietly. Then the doctor lay down on a couch near by and tossed till morning, conscious of a return of the pain and fever. The symptoms he well knew indicated a very serious condition. When "Mexico" woke the doctor examined him carefully.

"You're fine, 'Mexico.' You'll be all right in a week or two. Keep quiet and obey orders."

"Mexico's" hand grasped him. "Doc," he said anxiously, "you look awful bad. Can't you get to bed quick? You're going to be terrible sick."

"I'm afraid I'm going to be pretty bad, 'Mexico,' but I'm glad I came. I couldn't have stayed away, could I? Remember that, 'Mexico.' I'm glad I came."

"Mexico's" fierce black eyes softened. "Doc, I'm sorry and I'm glad. I had a lot of things to ask, but I don't need to. I know now. And I want to tell you, I've quit all that business, cut it right out." He waved his hand toward the bar.

"'Mexico,'" said Barney earnestly, "that's great! That's the best news I've had all summer. Now I must get back quick." He took the gambler's hand in his. "Good-bye, 'Mexico.'" His voice was earnest, almost solemn. "You've done me a lot of good. Good-bye, old boy. Play the game. He'll never go back on a friend."

"Mexico" reached out and held him with both hands. "Git out," he said to the attendant. "Doc," his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as he drew the doctor down to him, "there ain't nobody here, is there?" he asked, with a glance round the room.

"No, 'Mexico,' no one."

"Doc," he began again, his strong frame shaking, "I can't say it. It's all in here till it hurts. You're—you're like Him, I think. You make me think o' Him."

Barney dropped quickly on his knees beside the bed, threw his arms about his friend, and held him for a few moments in a tight embrace. "God bless you, 'Mexico,' for that word," he said. "Goodbye, my friend."

They held each other fast for a moment or two, looking into each other's eyes as if taking a last farewell. Then Barney took his journey through the storm, which was still raging, his fever mounting higher with every moment, back to the hospital, where Margaret received him with a brave welcoming smile.

"Dr. Cotton has returned," she announced. "And Dr. Neeley of Nelson is here, Barney."

He gave her a look of understanding. He knew well what she meant. "That was right, Margaret. And Dick?"

"Dick will be here this afternoon."

"You think of everything, Margaret dear, and everybody except yourself," said Barney, as he made his way painfully up the stairs.

"Let me help you, Barney," she said, putting her arms about him. "You're the one who will not think of yourself."

"We've all been learning from you, Margaret. And it is the best lesson, after all."

The consultation left no manner of doubt as to the nature of the trouble and the treatment necessary. It was appendicitis, and it demanded immediate operation.

"We can wait till my brother comes, can't we, Doctor?" Barney asked, a little anxiously. "An hour can't make much difference now, you know."

"Why, certainly we shall wait," cried the doctor.

Twenty miles through the storm came Dick, in answer to Margaret's urgent message, to find his brother dangerously ill and preparing for a serious operation. The meeting of the brothers was without demonstration of emotion. Each for the sake of the other held himself firmly in hand. The issues were so grave that there was no room for any expenditure of strength and indulging in the luxury of grief. Quietly, Barney gave his brother the few directions necessary to the disposal of his personal effects.

"Of course, Dick, I expect to get through all right," he said, with cheerful courage.

"Of course," answered Dick, quickly.

"But it's just as well to say things now when one can think quietly."

"Quite right, Barney," said Dick again, his voice steady and even.

The remaining minutes they spent in almost complete silence, except for a message of remembrance for the mother and the father far away; then the doctor came to the door.

"Are you ready, Doctor?" said Dick, in a firm, almost cheerful voice.

"Yes, we're all ready."

"A minute, Doctor, please," said Barney.

The doctor backed out of the room, leaving the brothers alone.

"Just a little, word, Dick."

"Oh, Barney," cried his brother, his breast heaving in a great sob, "I don't think I can."

"Never mind then, old chap," replied Barney, putting out his hand to him.

"Wait a minute, Barney. I will," said Dick, instantly regaining hold of himself. As he spoke he knelt by the bed, took his brother's hand in both of his and, holding it to his face, spoke quietly and simply his prayer, closing with the words, "And O, my Father, keep my brother safe." "And mine," added Barney. "Amen."

"Now, Dick, old boy, we're all ready." And with a smile he met the doctor at the door.

In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of the doctor and the nurse told Dick all he dared not ask.

"How long before he will be quite conscious again?" he inquired.

"It will be an hour at least," replied the surgeon, kindly, "before he can talk much."

Without a word to anyone, Dick went away to his room, locked the door upon his lonely fight and came forth when the hour was gone, ready to help his brother if he should chance to need help for "the last weariness, the final strife."

"We must help him," he said to Margaret as they stood together waiting till he should waken. "We must forget our side just now."

But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, as it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium, but a word would call him back to them. As the end drew near, by Nature's kindly ministry the pain departed.

"This is not too bad, Dick," he said. "How much worse it might have been. He brought us two together again—us three," he corrected, glancing at Margaret.

"Yes, Barney," replied Dick, "nothing matters much beside that."

"And then," continued his brother, "He let me do a little work for the boys, for 'Mexico.' Poor 'Mexico'! But he'll stick, I think. Help him, Dick. He is my friend."

"Mine, too, Barney," said Dick; "mine forever."

"Poor chaps, they need me. What a chance for some man!—for a doctor, I mean!"

"We'll get someone, Barney. Never fear."

"What a chance!" he murmured again, wearily, as he fell asleep.

Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, the whole world was at peace. The mountains and the wide valleys lay beautiful in their unsullied robes of purest white, and, over all, the rising sun cast a rosy sheen. As Margaret rolled up the blinds and drew back the curtains, letting in the glory of the morning, Barney opened his eyes and turned his face toward the window, moving his lips in a whisper.

Bending over him his brother caught the words, "Night no more." The great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look upon the mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest upon his brother's face. "It is near now, Dick—I think—and it's not hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there—under the pines—but I think mother—would like—to have me near."

"Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother." Dick's voice was steady and clear.

"Margaret," said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see her. An odd little smile played over his face. "I wasn't worth it, Margaret—but I thank you—I like to think of it now—I would like you—to kiss me." She kissed him on the lips once, twice, for a single moment her superb courage faltering as she whispered in his ear, "Barney, my love! my love!"

Again he smiled up at her. "Margaret," he said, "take care—of Dick—for me."

"Yes, Barney, I will." The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet voice carried full conviction to his mind.

"I know you will," he said with a sigh of content. For a long time he lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. Suddenly he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. "Dick, my boy," he cried, in a clear, strong voice, "my brother—my brother." He lifted up both his arms and wound them round Dick's neck, drew a deep breath, then another. They waited anxiously. Then one more. Again they waited, tense and breathless, but the eternal silence had fallen.

"He's gone, Margaret!" cried Dick, in a voice of piteous surprise, lifting up a white appealing face to her. "He's gone! Oh! he has left us!"

She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. "We have only each other now, Dick," she said, and took him in her arms. And so, in the strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found courage to turn again and live.

Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through the Pass, the General Manager placing his private car at their disposal. It was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a king. At every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken. It was their friend who was being carried past. At Bull Crossing a longer stay was made. The station house and platform and the street behind were blocked with men who had gathered in from the lumber camps and from down the line. One of their number came up, bearing a large wreath of the costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid it on the bier. The messenger stood there a moment and then said, hesitatingly, "The men would like to see him again, if you think best."

"Tell them to come," replied Dick, quickly, proceeding to uncover the face. For almost an hour they filed past, solemn, silent for the most part, but many weeping as only strong men can weep. But as they looked upon the strong dead face, its serene dignity, its proud look of triumph subdued their sobbing, and they passed out awed and somewhat comforted. The look on that dead face forbade pity. They might grieve for the loss of their friend, but to him the best had come.

By Margaret's side stood Tommy Tate, till the last. "Ochone!" he sobbed, "when I think of mesilf me heart is bruck entirely, but when I luk at him I feel no pain at all." It was the feeling in the hearts of all. For themselves they must weep, but not for him.

At length, all had gone. "Could you say a word to them, Dick?" said Margaret. "I think he would like it." And Dick, drawing a deep breath, went forth to them. His words were few and simple. "We must not speak words of grief to-day. He was glad to help you and he grew to love you as his friends. In his last hours he thought of you. I know you will not forget him. But were he giving me my words to-day, he would not ask me to speak of him, but of the One who made him what he was, Whom he loved and served with his life. For His sake it was, and for yours, that he gave himself to you."

As his voice ceased a commotion rose at the back of the crowd. A sleigh dashed up, two men got out, helping a third, before whom the crowd quickly made way. It was "Mexico," pale, feeble, leaning heavily upon his friends. He came up to Dick. "May I see him?" he asked humbly.

"Come in," said Dick, giving him both his hands and lifting him on to the platform, while a great sob swept over the crowd. They all knew by this time that it was to save "Mexico" the doctor had given his life. With heads bared they waited till "Mexico" came out again. As he appeared on the platform of the car with Dick's arm supporting him, the men gazed at him in deathly stillness. The ghastly face with its fierce, gleaming eyes held them as with a spell. For a moment "Mexico" stood leaning heavily upon Dick, but suddenly he drew himself erect.

"Boys," he said, his voice hoarse and broken, but distinctly audible over the crowd, "he died because he wouldn't go back on his friend. He gave me this." He took from his breast the New Testament, held it up and carried it reverently to his lips. "I'm a-goin' to follow that trail."

Two thousand miles and more they carried him home to his mother, and then to the old churchyard, where he sleeps still, forgotten, perhaps, even by many who had known and played with him in his boyhood, but remembered by the men of the mountains who had once felt the touch of that strong love that gave the best and freely for their sakes, and for His Whom it was his pride and joy to call Master and Friend.



XXIV

FOR LOVE'S SAKE

Again it was June, and over all the fields Nature's ancient miracle had been wrought. The trees by the snake fences stood in the full pride of their rich leafage, casting deep shadows on the growing grains. As of old, the Mill lane, with its velvet grassy banks, ran between snake fences, sweet-scented, cool, and shaded. Between the rails peeped the clover, red and white. Over the top rail nodded the rich berries of the dogwood, while the sturdy thorns held bravely aloft their hard green clusters waiting the sun's warm passion. The singing voices of summer were all a-throb, filling the air with great antiphonies of praise, till this good June day was fairly wild with the sheer joy of life.

At the crest of the hill Margaret paused. This was Barney's spot. "I'll wait here," she said to herself, a faint flush lighting up the chaste beauty of her face. But the hot sun beat down upon her with his fierce rays. "I must get into the shade," she said, climbed the fence, and, on the fragrant masses of red clover, threw herself down in the shade of the thorn tree. On this spot, how vividly the past came to her. How well she remembered the heartache of that day so long ago. The ache would never quite be gone, but with it mingled now a sweetness that only love knows how to distil from pity where trust is and high esteem.

A year had passed since she had sent Dick back alone to his work, remaining herself to bring the lonely hearts of the Old Mill such help and comfort as she could. At the parting with him, Barney's words, "Take care of Dick for me," had moved her to offer with shy courage to go back with him. But Dick was far too generous to avail himself of any such persuasion.

"You must not come to me for pity," he said, bidding her good-bye.

But throughout the year she had waited, listening to her heart and wondering at its throbs, as from time to time the story of Dick's heroic service came to her ears; and now the year was done. Last night he had returned. To-day he would come to her. She would meet him here. Ah, there he was now. On the crest of the hill he would turn and look toward her. There, he had turned.

As Dick caught sight of her he raised his voice in a shout, "Margaret!" and came running toward her.

She rose, and with her hands pressed hard upon her heart to quiet the throbbing that threatened to choke her, she stood waiting him.

Touching a top rail, he vaulted lightly over the fence and stood there waiting. "Margaret!" he cried again, with a note of anxiety in his voice that trembled under the intensity of his feeling.

But still she could not move for the tumult of joy that possessed her. "Oh, I am so glad," she whispered to herself. Dick came toward her slowly, almost timidly, it seemed to her. He took her hands down from her breast, held her at arm's length, seeking to read the meaning in the blue eyes lifted so bravely to his.

"For pity's sake, Margaret?" he asked, the note of anxiety deepening in his voice.

For a moment she stood pouring her heart's love into his eyes. "Yes," she said, shyly dropping her eyes before his ardent gaze, "and for love's sake, too."

And for Dick the day's gladness grew riotous, filling his world full from earth to heaven above.

THE END