If Any Man Sin

WITHIN THE LITTLE ROOM

Nance's eyes were big with wonder as she walked by Nurse Marion's side from the shore of the lake up to the hospital. They did not go by way of the river, but landed near the steamer, and thus passed through the busiest part of the town. Quabee kept close behind Nance, and seemed to pay no attention to the curious glances which were cast upon her.

Never before had Nance been brought into contact with so many people. When the stampede had taken place, and the prospectors and miners passed into the Quaska region, she had been astonished at the number of men she saw. But this crowd around her now was most bewildering. The natural timidity which she possessed with the creatures of the wild came upon her. She moved closer to the nurse, and the latter, noting that she was trembling with apprehension, placed her right arm caressingly around her.

"There is nothing to fear, Nance," she soothed, speaking the maiden's name for the first time. "The men know who I am, and, see, some of them are lifting their hats. Though they are rough at times outwardly, they always respect a nurse from our mission."

And not only did some of the men know Nurse Marion, but those who had come on the first steamer recognised Nance. They knew that it was the first time she had been over to the town, and they now showed their appreciation of her courage in defeating The Twins by lifting their hats to her as well as to the nurse. They were not slow to see the difference between the women who had entered the country merely for evil gain, and the one who had come to care for the miners. For the former they had uncouth remarks and jests, but for the latter only the highest regard.

Nance was greatly relieved when at last the hospital was reached. The large room, which was to be used for patients, was all finished except the fitting up of the cots. The place was fresh and new, just as the workmen had left it. Everything was rough, from the walls and the roof to the floor of whip-sawn planks, and the rude standees where the patients would be placed. Several large well-filled canvas sacks were lying upon the floor, which Nance eyed curiously.

"They are all filled with bedding, and things to brighten up the room," the nurse explained. "We had to work almost night and day to get things ready to catch the Northern Light. We had such a short time in which to do it after we received Mr. Russell's letter calling for a nurse."

"It is too bad that Dick isn't here now," Nance replied. "He didn't know that you were coming to-day, or I am sure he would not have gone up river."

"Who is Dick?" the nurse asked. "I never heard of him before."

"Why, the missionary, of course. The men all call him Dick here, and he told me to do the same."

"Oh, I see," Nurse Marion mused. She nevertheless looked keenly into the face of the young woman before her, but she saw only the perfect innocence of a child in her clear blue eyes.

After a while they passed into the room where the nurse was to live. This was a bright cosy place, and Nance was delighted as she looked eagerly around.

"And this will be your home!" she exclaimed. "How nice it will be!"

"Yes, when it is fitted up," was the reply. "You will help me, will you not? I have unpacked some of my things, but there is much to do yet."

Nance was greatly pleased to be of any assistance, so, directed by the nurse, she at once set to work, while Quabee, squatted upon the floor, watched with great interest all that was going on around her.

Nurse Marion was pleased and also surprised as she observed the deft way in which Nance busied herself about the room. She did everything so quietly, and yet speedily. At times the nurse found herself neglecting her own work and watching the movements of the girl in whom she was becoming so much interested. Where did she learn all these things? she asked herself. Her foster-father must surely be a most remarkable man. She thought, too, of his name, and wondered how she was going to find out more about him, and whether he was the same man she had known years before.

An idea came suddenly into her mind as she knelt by the side of a small bag she was unpacking. She hesitated at first, but at length she drew forth a package, carefully tied with a faded blue ribbon. She held it in her hand for a while before opening it. How well she remembered the sad day after her illness when, with trembling hands, she had tied up that little package. She had never opened it since, although she had carried it with her wherever she went. Slowly now her fingers loosened the knotted ribbon, and smoothed out the paper wrapping. Nance saw what she was doing, and with the impetuosity of a child knelt by her side.

"What are they?" she asked, observing several pieces of cardboard.

Nurse Marion lifted up the one on top, and turned it over.

"Why, it's the picture of a man!" Nance cried. "He is young, too, and so good looking. Doesn't he wear a funny collar? Is he your brother?"

"No, no, not my brother, Nance. He is some one I knew long ago, but I haven't seen him for years."

She then picked up another photograph, showing the same young man clad in his robes of office. It was a good likeness, and the nurse caught her breath as she looked upon it. How often in the happy days of old she had held that picture before her and studied the fine face, the clear eyes, and the dark hair brushed back carelessly from the brow. How full was her young life then, he was her hero, and the future was very bright.

"What a funny dress!" Nance exclaimed. "I never knew that men wore such things."

"He was a clergyman when I knew him," the nurse replied, "and during service he always wore his robes, which you see here."

"Do all wear them?"

"No, not all."

"Does Dick?"

"Yes, I suppose so when he holds service. All the clergymen of the Church to which I belong do."

Nurse Marion's little ruse had failed. She thought that perhaps Nance might recognise the photographs of her foster-father. But not a sign of recognition did she give, so the nurse slowly and thoughtfully folded up the pictures, tied once more the ribbon around them, and placed them back in the bag.

In her own mind Nurse Marion held one clear vision of the Martin Rutland she had known. To her he had not changed in the least, and she could not dream of him as a long-bearded man, hair streaked with grey, and hands rough and toil-worn. When, therefore, Nance did not recognise him in the photographs the nurse began to think that he could not be the same man to whom she had once given her heart and hand. And yet she was not satisfied. The idea which had taken possession of her haunted her still, and while her hands were busy her mind kept constantly dwelling upon the name. The sight of the photographs had brought back memories which she could not stifle, try as she might. She talked with Nance, and seemed to be in the gayest of moods as they fitted up the room, using every effort to overcome its bareness with the few meagre things she had brought with her. When they were at last through they both sat down upon the little cot, which was to be the nurse's bed.

"This certainly does look more homelike now," the nurse declared, looking approvingly around the room. "You have been such a help to me, as well as company. I do not like to work alone."

"It is so nice here," Nance replied. "May I come often? You do not know what it means to have a white woman to talk to."

"But it seems to me that you have learned many things here in the wilderness, Nance. Unless you had told me I could not believe that you had never been with a white woman before. I suppose it was your father who taught you so much."

"Yes, daddy has been so good, and he knows most everything. Besides, I learned so much from the books I read, and how white women lived and talked. But there is one person who has been of such great help to me."

"What, some one living here?" the nurse asked.

"Oh, no. I have never seen her, but I have heard much about her."

"From whom?"

"From daddy. When I was quite young he told me many things about her, and I have always kept her in my mind, and tried to be just like her."

"Indeed! Tell me more, please," and the nurse settled herself in a more comfortable position.

"Well, when I was very small daddy used to tell me fairy tales, which were so interesting. The one I liked best of all was about the man who had a beautiful garden. There were all kinds of flowers, and he had to care for them. Then one day he hurt one of the flowers, and he was not allowed to look after the garden any longer. He went away and wandered about from place to place for years. At last he went into the wilderness, and there he found a little flower, which he took with him, and they lived together for a long time. The name of that little flower was Heart's Ease. Don't you think it is a pretty story?"

"And was Heart's Ease the name of the woman you had in your mind all of these years?" and the nurse looked questioningly into the face of the young story teller.

"Oh, no. There was another. Daddy told me about one of the flowers in the garden which felt so badly at what the gardener did. He said it was the most beautiful flower of all. Then when I got older he told me that this flower was a woman, very lovely, with wonderful eyes, and that she could sing so beautifully."

"Oh!" This involuntary exclamation came from Nurse Marion's lips as she sat erect upon the cot. Her form trembled, and her face was white. She now began to read this story in its true light, and what was merely a fairy tale to Nance, to her was terribly real.

"Yes," Nance continued, "the flower was a woman, and daddy told me so much about her that I wanted to be like her. I would sit hour after hour thinking about her, and wondering how she looked and talked. She seemed very real to me. Isn't it funny," and Nance turned toward the nurse, "that when I look at you and listen to you I imagine that you are my Beryl?"

"Beryl!" The word came from the nurse's lips like a startled cry. She grasped Nance's arm, and looked into her eyes. "Did you say the woman's name was Beryl?"

"Yes, that was her name. But are you sick?" she asked, noting the other's white face and excited manner.

"No, no, I am all right now," and the nurse gave a little hollow laugh. "I was so much interested in your story that I forgot myself for the moment."

All doubt was now removed from Nurse Marion's mind as to the identity of Nance's foster-father. It could be no one else, she felt sure of that. She rose to her feet and looked out of the little window at the east side of the house, but saw nothing beyond. Her brain was throbbing, and her hands were firmly clenched. What was she to do? she asked herself. Would it be possible for her to remain in this place, so near to the man, the history of whose life she so well knew, and who had almost broken her heart? Would it not be better for her to go back on the Northern Light, and send some one else in her place? But how could she explain such a move on her part to the people at the mission station down river? Would it not appear cowardly as well? No, she must stay and face whatever might come.

This decision once reached a sense of peace stole into her heart. Strive as she might she could not banish the desire to see Martin Rutland once more. But she did not wish to see him face to face and thus have him recognise her. No, that would never do, the gulf was too deep and wide between them ever to be bridged again. If she could see him and not be known herself that would be a degree of satisfaction. She longed to know if he had changed much, and how the years of his remorse had dealt with him.

An exclamation of surprise startled her and caused her to turn quickly around. There in the doorway stood the missionary with an expression of intense wonder stamped upon his face. His eyes swept the room in one swift comprehensive glance, resting upon Quabee, Nance, and, last of all, the woman standing before the window.

"Why, Nurse Marion," he began, as soon as he had somewhat recovered from his astonishment, "I had no idea that you were here. It is too bad that I happened to be away when the steamer arrived. I am so sorry that I was not on hand to welcome you. But if it is not too late, allow me to do so now," and stepping across the room he held out his hand.

"Oh, don't worry, Mr. Russell," the nurse laughingly replied. "I have been well looked after, and have been having such an interesting time."

"I am glad of that," and Dick turned and looked fondly upon Nance, whose face was now beaming with joy. "I might have known that everything would be all right."

Nurse Marion saw the look of complete understanding which passed between the two, and she needed no words to explain its significance.

"You have made a very cosy room for me here, Mr. Russell," she remarked, "and I wish to thank you for what you have done. I am sure that I shall be comfortable."

"It is not so bad, considering what has been done," and Dick glanced approvingly around. "My, I am glad that you are here. A poor chap got badly hurt out at the diggings, and several miners are bringing him in over the trail. I hurried on ahead to see if I couldn't fit up a place in here to keep him."

Nurse Marion was all alert now. "We can fix up a cot at once," she replied. "If you will open the bales, Nance will help me to get ready, won't you?" and she turned to the interested girl at her side.

"Oh, may I?" Nance responded, eager to be of any service to this woman, who seemed such a wonderful person in her eyes.

THE RIVER FLOWS BETWEEN

"Where have you been, Nance? I was getting uneasy about you."

Martin was standing in the door as Nance approached. He noted the expression of happiness upon her face and the buoyancy of her step.

"Oh, daddy, I have had such a great time!" was the reply. "I have been over to the hospital."

"To the hospital! What in the world took you there?"

"It was Nurse Marion. I have met her, and she is wonderful."

At these words Martin started, and glanced across the river to the log building perched upon the opposite bank. He then turned to Nance.

"Come, little one; supper is ready. I have been waiting for you for some time."

Nance was too greatly excited to eat much. Seldom had Martin seen her so animated, as she described in detail her afternoon's experience.

"I wish you could see her, daddy," and Nance's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she turned them upon Martin's face. "You really must. Won't you take me over this evening? I know she would like to see you. She asked me many things about you."

"She did?" Martin questioned with averted face.

"Yes, several times, and I told her how you taught me to play the violin, to read, and, in fact, all I know is due to you. She was greatly interested, and said that you must be a wonderful man."

"Did she ask you what my name was?"

"Oh, yes. I told her, too, that you were not my real father, but that you had brought me here when I was a very little child."

"What did she say?"

"She seemed surprised, and asked if I didn't find the life here very lonely."

"Go on," was Martin's only comment as Nance paused.

"It was so nice in her room, and she let me help her fix it up. Daddy, I wonder if all white women—I mean good ones—are like Nurse Marion."

"Why do you ask, Nance?"

"I hardly know how to explain," the girl replied, looking thoughtfully before her. "Nurse Marion is very beautiful, but there is something about her I cannot understand. Her eyes are wonderful. They seem to be always seeing things far away. Even when she was smiling there was a sad expression in her eyes. Do you know, daddy, I believe that she has had some great trouble in her life."

"What makes you think so, Nance?"

"It was the way she stood at times, and looked just at nothing. She wondered how I knew so many things, having lived all my life in the wilderness. I told her that you taught me, and that I got help from the books I read. I told her, too, about Beryl, and——"

"You did!" Martin exclaimed. "What did she say?"

"She listened until I was through, and then she went and looked out of the window for some time."

"Oh!"

"Yes, it seemed to make her sad. But that wasn't all. When we were unpacking her things she came to a small package, wrapped in paper, and tied with a piece of faded blue ribbon. She opened it and showed me two pictures of a clergyman, so she said."

"What! But go on, Nance. Don't stop."

"In one picture the man was dressed in a funny way, 'in his robes of office,' so Nurse Marion said. I thought he must be her brother, but she told me that he was a man she knew years ago. He was young, fine-looking, and——"

"You wash up the dishes, Nance," Martin interrupted. "I am going outside for a while."

With that he strode to the door, leaving Nance sitting at the table, thinking over what she had seen and heard, and dreaming, of the time when she would be a nurse like the woman over the river. She noticed nothing strange about her father's sudden departure. If she had thought of it at all she would have attributed it to a lack of interest in what she had been talking about.

She had barely got the dishes washed and put away, when Martin returned, bringing with him Tom and Dad Seddon. Hearty were the greetings which fell from the lips of the two prospectors when their eyes rested upon Nance.

"We couldn't stay away any longer," Tom remarked, as he gave the young woman's hand a hearty shake. "We've been jist dyin' to see ye. Dad's got several chess problems up his sleeve all ready to hand out."

"That's good," Nance laughingly replied. "I haven't had a game for some time. Would you like to have one now?"

"Sure thing; that's if you have time."

Soon the board was spread out, the chessmen arranged, and the two players faced each other, while Martin and Tom sat near at hand smoking and watching the game.

"How did you happen to come in to-day?" Nance asked, turning to Tom, as she waited for Dad to make a move.

"We brought in Tim Cyr, who got knocked out at the diggin's, an' a mighty surprise was waitin' fer us when we got to town, I can tell ye that."

"Oh, I know," Nance eagerly replied. "You found Nurse Marion there, didn't you? Isn't she lovely?"

"Indeed she is, Miss. She's all gold, if I don't mistake. Ye should have seen the way she looked after Tim an' helped the doctor. Why, I never saw anything like it."

"And didn't she have things fixed up in great shape," Dad remarked, taking his eyes for the first time from off the game.

"Oh, I guess somebody helped her with that," Tom chuckled. "She told me all about it."

"Did she?" and the look on Nance's face showed her delight. "It was so nice to be there. She is the first white woman I ever met, and I hope to see her often."

"Ye won't find all like her, remember, Miss," and Tom's voice had a note of pathos in it. "She is one in a thousand. Not many would be willin' to come in here to help us poor critters. Now, them other women, they're here fer no good, an' they're bound to cause a lot of trouble. Something has got to be done, an' I believe that the parson'll take a hand in the matter to save the boys. Before the women came there was the whiskey. Now, with both women an' whiskey things are bound to be pretty lively. The saloon is goin' full blast, an' the parson has been worryin' a good deal. It was in kernection with this matter that he visited us at the diggin's to-day. He outlined his plan, an', by jiminey! we're goin' to help him."

"Sure thing," Dad assented, as he swung up his queen, in an effort to corner Nance's king. "We'll stand by the parson. Check!"

"Mate!" Nance triumphantly cried, bringing up a knight, and completely cornering Dad's king.

"Well, I'll be jiggered!" the prospector exclaimed, as he studied the clever trap into which his opponent had led him. "I didn't see what you were up to till the last. My! that was well done, an' you certainly do deserve the game," and he lifted his eyes, filled with admiration, to the flushed face of his fair young woman, who had outwitted him so cleverly.

"I hope the parson'll do as well at his game over yon," Tom quietly remarked. "I'm afraid there'll be many checks before it's mate in his case. But he's got good grit, an' that's a great thing in his favour. He's made a fair start so fer in gittin' the hospital built, an' havin' a nurse brought in. As soon as the boys see that he goes in fer practical religion, an' if they've eyes at all they must surely see it by now, then they'll be with him. I think that next Sunday 'ill tell the tale."

"What's going to happen next Sunday?" Martin quietly asked.

"Didn't I tell ye? No? Well, that's queer," and Tom ran the fingers of his right hand through his long hair. "To think that we fergot to mention sich an important piece of news, an' it was what took the parson all the way out to the diggin's fer, too."

"Quit yer croaking, Tom, and come to the point," Dad growled. "If you don't I'll have to."

"Feelin' sore over yer lickin', are ye?" Tom bantered. "Well, the parson has been doin' some serious thinkin' of late, an' so he wanted our advice. He knew that the miners at Quaska an' on the creeks need some attraction to keep them away from the saloon, an' to give 'em 'an' uplift,' as he calls it. He, therefore, suggested that we hold a bang-up service next Sunday night in the hospital. We agreed that it was a fine idea, an' promised that we'd do all we could to round up the boys. I don't think there will be any trouble in gittin' 'em, especially if there's plenty of music an' singin'. With two fiddles a-playin' the boys 'ill do the rest."

This mention of the violins was a little ruse on Tom's part in order to see how Martin would take it. But the latter made no comment. He sat very still, looking straight before him, and Tom alone noted the expression upon his face, from which he surmised that the quiet man was fighting a fierce, stubborn battle.

"Ye'll play, lassie, won't ye?" Tom asked, turning to Nance. "I know that the boys would like it great, an' the parson—well, he'll about stand on his head."

"I should dearly love to play," Nance laughingly replied, "that is, if daddy will let me. But perhaps I might break down in the presence of so many men. I am sure to get nervous, and will hardly know what I am doing."

"Don't let that trouble ye, Miss," Tom hastened to reply. "Ye have the nurse with ye. Maybe she sings, an' if she does so much the better. Then, if everything goes off well at the first service, the boys 'ill be sure to flock back ag'in, an' the saloon will be a heavy loser."

Martin sat for a long time outside the door of his house after the two prospectors had gone home. Nance, tired out, was asleep. Sounds from the mining camp fell upon his ears. He could hear the loud talking and laughing, mingled occasionally with the voices of women. Lights twinkled here and there throughout the town, while the saloon down by the lake was ablaze with numerous candles. A hilarious time was being held there, he well knew. He compared the scene now with what it was before the miners came. Then peace and quiet dwelt over the entire place instead of the discords which were making the night hideous.

One small light, trailing out into the darkness, held Martin's attention. It came from the hospital, and he thought of the woman there who was keeping watch over the patient. This was her first night at Quaska, and he realised how lonely she must be. He had no doubt now that it was Beryl. The description which Nance had given, and what she had told him, made him certain that it could be no one else. He marvelled how strangely it had come to pass that she of all women should come to Quaska. He thought, too, how differently their lives would have been but for his own terrible fall. No doubt they would be living in their own happy home, respected by all. But oh, how opposite the reality. There was Beryl, lonely in that building over yonder, and he himself a dejected outcast, with the future holding not a ray of hope, and the past only gall and wormwood. What would Beryl think and do, he wondered, if she knew that he was so near, with only the river flowing between? But she must never know, so he told himself. Then a great longing came upon him to see her, to look upon her face once more. It would be so easy, he mused, to slip over the river, and peer in through the window from which the light was streaming. He banished this idea, however, as unmanly, and so contented himself with thinking about Beryl as he knew her in the sweet old days before they were separated.

And so on this night while Martin sat and dreamed, a lonely, tear-stained-faced woman stood at the little window of her room and gazed out into the night, thinking of him, who was so near, and yet so far away. And between these two flowed the silent river, dark and swift on its way to the deep lake below.

THE FACE AT THE DOOR

Next morning Nance was up earlier than usual. Her step was light as she moved about the room preparing breakfast. She was happier than she had been for many a day, for the meeting with Nurse Marion had a wonderful effect upon her young life. She was thinking now of everything the nurse had said. She wanted to be like her, and then she was sure that Dick would not be ashamed of her. She thought, too, of the hospital, and how delightful it would be to assist with the patients. She was very anxious to be over there, for she felt certain that the nurse would need her.

The idea of a service on Sunday night interested her very much. She had some doubt about her ability to play. She felt sure that she would be nervous, and perhaps break down. But then she knew that Dick and the nurse would help her out, so everything would be all right. She wondered if her father would go over to the service. If so, and he consented to play, it would make it so much easier for her.

While these thoughts were running through Nance's mind Martin drew near. He had taken his early morning walk as usual, after having made on the fire and called Nance. He heard her humming a tune before he reached the door, and he was not slow in detecting the note of happiness which could only come from a heart overflowing with peace and joy. He paused upon the threshold to look upon her. Though always fair and graceful to his eyes she seemed to excel in loveliness as she stood before him this morning.

Nance greeted him with a bright smile as he entered the room.

"Breakfast is all ready, daddy. You must be hungry."

"Indeed I am," was the reply. "My walk has sharpened my appetite."

Together over the meal the two discussed the affairs at the mining town. The scraps of news they had heard were of much interest. But Nance's mind was upon Nurse Marion, and about her she talked. She told her father over again what had happened at the hospital on the previous day. Martin did not attempt to restrain her. In fact, he did not wish to do so now. He listened attentively to every word she uttered, and at times found himself leaning eagerly forward that he might not miss anything.

"And only think, daddy!" she cried, "Nurse Marion wants me to help her whenever I can. She said she was so pleased to have me, and I told her that I would go if you would let me. And you will, daddy, won't you?"

"Yes, little one, if it will make you happy. I can trust you with—with Nurse Marion."

"But I will look after our house, daddy, just the same. I will cook, wash, and do all the house work. I shall get up very, very early, and attend to it. Then I can spend the afternoons at the hospital, and learn so many things from Nurse Marion. I long more and more to be a nurse, and I know that she will teach me. Won't it be strange, daddy, to see the hospital full of miners next Sunday?"

"It certainly will, Nance. But perhaps not many of them will be there."

"You will go, daddy, will you not?" Nance asked. "I don't see how I can play alone. If you are there I shall not mind it one bit."

"Nance?" and Martin looked straight into the maiden's eyes as he uttered her name.

"Yes, daddy."

"I want you to promise me two things."

"Yes, daddy."

"You are never again to ask me to go to any service across the river, neither are you to inquire as to the reason why I wish you to promise me this."

"Yes, daddy, I promise," was the faltering response.

"That's good. Now don't forget, little one."

Martin's mind was now doubly agitated. He became exceedingly restless, and spent most of his time out on the hills. Here, and alone, he could brood over the strange events which had come so recently into his life. Besides the deep stirring of his heart, owing to Beryl's arrival, he was face to face with the question of the service to be held at the hospital Sunday night. His thoughts went back to the days when he would have looked forward with joy for the time to arrive when he could take part in the beautiful service of the Church to which he had once belonged. But now an outcast, not only by his bishop, but also by his own conscience, the punishment was almost more than he could endure. How truly did he understand the words of the aged bishop. He had laughed scornfully at them then, little realising how terribly true they were, and how the day would come when their fulfilment would give him such intense mental agony.

Often he would sit under the shade of some tree, and look down over the lake, especially upon the hospital, which appeared like a speck in the distance. He would picture Beryl—not Nurse Marion to him—moving about the building, and attending to the wants of the patient. He knew that Nance was there most of the day, talking with Beryl, and looking into her face. The latter was constantly before him, not as a nurse, with hair streaked with grey, but as he had seen her seated at the piano on that Christmas eve as he watched her through the window of her old home. All the love which he then had for this beautiful woman came back upon him with greater intensity now because of the smouldering fire of long years, and the thought that she could never be his, nor could he speak to her, nor listen to her voice.

Every night Martin would come back home with face drawn and haggard, and an absent, far-away look in his eyes. Nance became much worried about him, and confided her trouble to Dick.

"Perhaps it is the arrival of the miners that is affecting him," the latter suggested.

"It may be that," Nance mused. "Still I cannot understand him. He is away from home most of the day, and when he comes back he looks so strange. I asked him to go to service Sunday night and play with me."

"Will he?" Dick eagerly inquired. "That would be such a help."

"No, he will not go, and he made me promise that I would never ask him again."

"Why? I wonder."

"He made me promise further that I would never ask him to tell the reason why he would not go."

"Oh!"

Dick was as much puzzled as Nance over Martin's strange behaviour, and the next day he mentioned the matter to Tom. It was Sunday afternoon, and the prospector had come into town to be early for the service, and to assist in any way he could with the preparations.

"So he refused to come an' play, did he?" Tom questioned.

"Refused point-blank, so Nance said, and he made her promise that she would never again ask him to go to service, nor the reason why he would not do so. Now, what can you make out of that?"

"He's a reason, no doubt," was the reply.

"Don't you remember, Tom," Dick continued, "how strangely he acted when we first came to his house last spring?"

"I haven't fergotten, pard. He certainly did act queer. It was a problem to me."

Tom didn't say that it was a problem no longer. He understood now very well why Martin was unwilling to attend the service, and accordingly had demanded those promises from Nance. But nothing would induce him to divulge any of the knowledge of Martin's past life which he himself had acquired. "What people don't know about sich things," he had said to himself, "won't do any harm, an' it might make matters very uncomfortable fer Martin an' the lassie."

Martin was unusually quiet all day Sunday. He did not go out to the hills, but sat under the shade of a large tree near the house, reading, or pretending to do so. Nance was with him most of the day reading a book Nurse Marion had let her have. It was entitled "In the Service of the King," and dealt with the work of trained nurses in all lands. Several chapters told of the heroic services of devoted women in the mission fields. Nance was thrilled and delighted with the book. At times she would call her father's attention to some striking passage, and read it to him.

As the afternoon waned Nance left home, for Nurse Marion had invited her to tea in her little room.

"You do not mind my leaving you, daddy?" she asked, putting her arms around his neck, and giving him an affectionate kiss.

"I am always pleased to see you happy, little one," Martin replied with a smile.

But as he watched her as she moved lightly down to the canoe, carrying her violin with her, a great loneliness swept over him. He knew that in reality Nance's heart was not with him, but over the river with Dick and the nurse. The thought that she could go to the service with such a free-from-care spirit pressed heavily upon his soul. He saw now that the time was not far off when she would be no longer with him to kiss him good-bye. A new life of freedom and service was opening up to her, while for him the future held only misery in store. The associations of the wilderness would attract Nance but a little longer, he could see that, and then he would be left alone.

Martin prepared his supper, but ate little, as he missed the familiar form at the head of the table. He soon pushed back his stool, rose and went to the door. The room appeared unbearably close to-night, and he needed the freshness of the open air. He sat outside, lighted his pipe, and smoked. His eyes were fixed constantly upon the hospital across the river. He knew that it would be late before the service began, for the miners would not gather until darkness had spread over the land. Thus hour after hour he remained there, and had Nance looked forth she might have seen his form appearing like a speck against the log building. But she was too much engaged with other things just then to think of the lone watcher on the opposite bank.

The sun swung down behind the tall mountain peaks, and twilight settled over the land. Then Martin rose, closed the door of his house, and walked rapidly toward the Indian village. Here he obtained Taku's canoe, and paddled slowly out upon the lake. Several times he passed by the mining town, and noted the stir about the door of the saloon. Near the hospital, some distance away, scarcely a person was to be seen. Was the service to be a failure after all? he asked himself. At length he saw a number of men sauntering toward the river, followed after a while by others. Thus he knew that the movement for the service had begun. He continued his paddling around, keeping at the same time a close watch upon the land until he felt sure that all who were going had entered the hospital. He then headed the canoe up the river, stopping at length at the very place where Nance had landed that afternoon.

Trees lining the bank draped the shore in deep shadows, and here Martin crouched, listening with straining ears for whatever sounds might come from the building above. He had not long to wait before he heard the sweet strains of Nance's violin sounding forth upon the still night air. It was the familiar tune of a well-known hymn, and soon he heard numerous voices lifted up with one accord.

When the singing ceased a deep silence ensued. Then some one began to speak, and Martin knew that the missionary had begun the service. Occasionally a few familiar words reached him, and he was thus enabled to follow what was being said without much difficulty.

As he remained crouching there amid the deepening darkness, he pictured to himself what was taking place within the hospital. He could see the miners seated around the room on rough benches, and the missionary standing before them reading the service. Nance, no doubt, was near, holding her violin in her hands, waiting for the next hymn. But where was Beryl? he wondered. Was she sitting near Nance? The memory of the many times he had seen her seated at the organ in the church in his first and only parish came upon him now with a sudden stabbing intensity. He recalled, especially, one bright, beautiful July day. The windows of the church were open. Bees hummed among the flowers outside, birds chirped and sang, while the perfume of fragrant fields was wafted into the building. There were sweet flowers, he remembered, upon the Communion Table, and on the organ. Beryl, all in white, was sitting in her accustomed place, and during the service he stole an occasional glance in her direction. He noted the happiness upon her face, and the expression of love in her eyes as she played. How full of peace and joy was his heart that day. He had been lifted up to the seventh heaven of ecstasy. And yet from that state of bliss he had fallen, and had plunged into the deep abyss of hell and despair. He thought of the angels who had been driven headlong out of heaven, and of the first parents thrust out from the Garden of Eden. To have known the joy and peace of walking with the Master made the sting of banishment all the more terribly poignant.

The sound of the violin again striking up roused Martin from his reverie. The tune as before was familiar, and he hummed it to himself. But this time there was no chorus of discordant voices. One alone was singing, and the crouching man started, and then sprang to his feet as the sound reached his ears. It was a woman's voice, and he at once recognised it as Beryl's.

Martin stood there beneath the trees, every nerve alert, and his ears strained so as not to miss one note of that voice which had been silent to him for years. Suddenly an over-mastering impulse seized him to behold once again the face of the singer. He accordingly moved up the hill like a man impelled forward by some unseen power. Reaching the corner of the building, he paused just for an instant, and then stepped to the door, which was wide open, and looked in. His eyes roamed for an instant around the room. He saw as in a dream the miners seated there, almost breathless, with their faces turned in one direction. Then his eyes rested upon Beryl! As he saw her he clutched the side of the door for support, while his face went deathly white. Yes, it was she, there was no mistake, the same form, the same face, though more worn than when last he beheld it, and the same sweet voice, but filled with a vibrant note of sadness.

When the last note had rippled forth, a silence which could be felt pervaded the room. Then a sound, half sob and half wail of despair, caused the miners to look hurriedly around. Those nearest the door caught a fleeting glimpse of a face white and haggard, which disappeared instantly into the night.

Later, when Nance walked slowly homeward, with Dick by her side, Martin was sitting before the door of his house awaiting her return.

THE INNER IMPULSE

The success of the service showed the necessity of a church building. There might come a time when the hospital could not be used, owing to the number of patients. Dick had often revolved this idea in his mind, and he believed that the time had now arrived for definite action. But it was not his intention to have a building which would be closed six days in the week and open only on Sunday for service. No, it was to be used every day, and during the evenings as well. It was to be a place where the evil influence of the saloon and the dance-hall could be counteracted. He sadly noted how soon the latter had been erected after the arrival of the women, and how well it was patronised. The church building must be cosy, and serve as a place where the miners could meet in genial intercourse, play games, smoke, and relate their experiences in the northland. It was to be a reading-room as well, for he knew that by the time the building was ready he would be able to have on hand a liberal supply of magazines from the mission station down river. They would be somewhat old, to be sure, but that would make little difference, as the miners were hungry for reading matter of any kind.

When Dick unfolded his plan to Tom and Dad they became at once very enthusiastic, and promised to do all in their power to assist. They in turn mentioned the idea to a number of miners, but with little success. A few agreed to help, but most of them were indifferent. This did not discourage the missionary, however, and his little staff of workers. They very well knew that a church building would not appeal to the miners half as much as a hospital. But if it could be built it would prove as great if not a greater benefit in the end. It was Nurse Marion's interest and encouragement which did so much to advance the scheme. Often in the evening the faithful band would gather at the hospital to talk over the whole matter and discuss plans for the building. Nance could not always be present, so the nurse would talk it all over with her when they were alone during the afternoons. Nance was thus enabled to carry the news to Martin, who listened with great interest to the new project which was now on foot.

And thus once again Dick plunged into the forest, axe in hand, to prepare the logs for the little church. Tom assisted him for a whole week, while Dad looked after the mines. Summer was passing all too rapidly, and the days were perceptibly shortening. It was a great sacrifice on Tom's part to leave the diggings just at this season. But he could not see the missionary stuck. "It may be," he quietly remarked to Dad, "that helpin' to build the church 'ill do me more good in the end than diggin' gold. What we dig out yon, Dad, 'ill perish, but in hewin' these sticks I'm feelin' that I'm layin' treasures up yon in the world to come."

Besides giving of their time and labour Tom and Dad contributed as much as they were able of their gold. In this way several idle men were hired to work upon the building. Others gave sparingly, and thus the undertaking steadily though slowly advanced. But wages were high, and at last the day came when Dick found himself alone, and with no gold to employ any one to assist him. It was impossible for his two faithful friends to be with him now. A long hard winter lay ahead, and as they had recently got their mine in good working order, it was necessary for them to keep at it almost day and night, if they were to take out enough gold to last them until spring.

The thought of winter had given Dick considerable worry ever since the arrival of the steamer. Many people had flocked into the region, and others would follow later, who had little money, and who had staked claims on creeks tributary to the Quaska, where there was very little gold. What they would do when the cold weather set in was a problem which he had discussed not only with Tom and Dad, but with Martin and Nance as well. Game was becoming scarce in the vicinity of Quaska, as the moose and caribou were retreating farther into the hills from the presence of the white men.

Dick was also troubled about the church, as he feared that he would not have it finished before winter. He was doing all he possibly could, and he worked hard every day. It was always a comfort for him to slip over in the evening to see Nance. Her presence cheered him when most depressed. She looked upon the bright side, and he always went back to his task the next morning with renewed courage.

Martin was often a silent listener as Dick talked about the church, and the fear which was tugging at his heart lest it would not be completed in time to be used that season.

"There are men on the creeks," the missionary explained one evening, "who would be glad of a job if I only had some money to give them." He was sitting gazing absently into the fire as he spoke, with Nance and Martin seated near. "They have had bad luck, and are about stranded. The stores will not trust them, so I understand, and what will become of them is hard to tell. It is a pity that they didn't go out on the last steamer. They were urged to do so, but they were determined to stay to make good."

"Won't the rest of the miners help them?" Nance asked. "The ones who have done well will surely not allow them to starve."

"Oh, no. I believe that they will share with them, or at least some will. But many of the men who are hard up will not ask for help. They will live in their lonely shacks far up on the creeks. They will roam the forest for game, and subsist on half a meal a day. They will brood and worry all through the winter, and when the long nights come their position will be about unbearable. I have heard of such cases before. Some will starve to death, while others will go out of their minds. I fear that we shall have many sad cases on our hands before spring."

"Are the stores well supplied with provisions?" Martin asked. "I have never been over to find out."

"Yes, I believe there is plenty to last all through the winter if it could be equally distributed among the miners. But those who are able to buy will get most of it, while others will get very little."

"Will the prices go up later, do you think?" Martin queried.

"I am sure they will. The storekeepers will wait until navigation closes, and then they will jump the prices. They always do that, so I understand. I call it a mean business."

Four days after this conversation Martin returned from a trip up the creeks. Nance, who was preparing supper as he entered the house, noted the buoyancy of his step, and the new expression which shone in his eyes. He appeared to her like a man who had been groping for something for a long time and at last had found it. A smile even spread over his face as Nance greeted him with cheerful words of welcome.

"My, that supper smells good!" he exclaimed, as he laid his rifle aside. "I am almost starved."

"Have you travelled far to-day, daddy?"

"Yes. I have been over several of the creeks. I wanted to find out how much Dick knows about the condition of the miners out there."

"And did you?"

"Partly. I've not been over all the creeks yet, but so far I have learned that he is right. There will certainly be much suffering this winter."

Martin said nothing more about his visit to the creeks, but that evening, much to Nance's surprise, he brought forth his violin, and asked her to accompany him. It was the first time that he had done such a thing since the arrival of the miners.

"What shall we play, daddy?" Nance queried as she tuned up her violin.

"Something sweet to-night, little one. Anything that strikes the fancy."

He then began to play the air of "Ninety and Nine." "Sing it, Nance," he commanded. "Do you know the words?"

"I have them here in this book which Nurse Marion let me have," was the reply. "But, oh, I wish you could have heard her sing it last Sunday at service. It was wonderful, and the men were so still when she got through, except one person near the door."

"And what did he do?" Martin inquired.

"He made a strange noise, something between a sob and a cry."

"Did any one know who it was?"

"No. We were talking about it afterwards, and Tom said that the words of the hymn must have struck some poor chap pretty hard to make him cry out like that."

Martin made no reply, but played the tune over softly, while Nance, with the book open before her, sang the words in a clear, sweet voice.

The former sat for a while when the hymn was ended, with the violin resting upon his knees.

"I can't play any more to-night, Nance," he at length remarked. "Put this away, please," and he handed the instrument to her.

That night after Nance had gone to bed Martin sat for a long time before the dying coals of the fire. He held in his hand a sheet of note paper, on which he had traced with a lead pencil the Quaska River and the various creeks running into it. On these latter he had made certain marks, which indicated where the cabins of the miners were situated. Several were close together, but most of them were far apart. On a number of the creeks he had made no marks at all. "I must visit them as soon as I can," he mused. "I learned to-day that one man is a long way off, living in a cabin all by himself, without even a dog for a companion."

It was after midnight when Martin at length folded, up the paper, put it into his pocket, and rose to his feet. He listened attentively, until satisfied from her regular breathing that Nance was asleep. Then taking the candle in his hand, he went at once to the strong-room at the back of the house. Unbarring the door, he opened it, entered, and closed it carefully behind him. Crossing to the middle of the room, he lifted the trap-door and, holding the light in his left hand, peered down upon the treasure which he had not looked upon for years. It was all there just as he had left it, with not a gleaming grain molested. Near by was a tin can which he had used in bringing the gold from up river. Seizing this, he placed it near the hole and, scooping up the gold with his hand, he soon had the can filled to the brim. This accomplished, he replaced the trap-door and, passing out of the room, shut to and barred the door as it was before.

Picking up a piece of paper lying on a shelf, he scrawled a few words with his lead pencil. Folding up the paper, he pressed it down on the inside of the can so that only a small portion was left in sight. Picking up the can, and blowing out the candle, he passed out of the house, shut the door, and hurried down to the shore, where his canoe was lying. It did not take him long to cross to the opposite bank, where he landed, as he did the previous Sunday night, just below the hospital.

Carrying the tin of gold in his hands, he moved cautiously up among the trees. The night was quite dark, but he was able to see the building rising up black before him. He did not stop now at the front of the hospital, but moved around to the side, where he knew there was a separate door leading into Beryl's room. His steps were more wary than ever now, for he was afraid lest the least noise should betray him.

Reaching at length the door, he placed the can upon the sill so that it could without any doubt be seen when Beryl opened the door in the morning. His errand completed, Martin breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped back among the trees. He did not leave at once, but stood there for some time, with eyes fixed upon the room in which he knew Beryl was sleeping. He looked toward the door. It was there where she passed in and out, and her feet had often touched that sill. He started suddenly forward several paces, and, stooping, he impulsively pressed his lips to the hard board sill. Then he sprang hurriedly back, surprised at his own action, and, delaying no longer, plunged among the trees, and hastened to the river.

After breakfast the next morning Martin again went into the strong-room and, opening the trap-door, picked up a number of fine nuggets, and placed them in his pocket. He then went back to the living-room and informed Nance that he was going over the river and might not be back for several hours. Nance was somewhat surprised at this, for Martin had always persistently refused to go with her to the town. She watched him as he paddled his canoe down the river, and then along the edge of the shore until he came to the steamboat landing, where he ran ashore. Beyond this she could not follow his movements. Her curiosity was now much aroused, which was by no means lessened when she saw him returning about two hours later with the canoe loaded with supplies from the store. She ran down to the shore to meet him, and was greatly excited when she saw the quantity of provisions he had on board.

"Why, daddy!" she exclaimed, "have you cleared the store all out?"

"Not at all," was the laughing reply. "I had no idea that the stores were so well stocked with provisions. They will hardly miss what I have brought away. They thought that I was a miner."

"But what are you going to do with it all, daddy? We couldn't use so much flour, rice, bacon, beans, tea, and sugar in two years."

"Couldn't we, dearie? Are you sure of that?" and Martin's eyes twinkled as he looked into Nance's puzzled face. "We'll store it away in the strong-room, and this winter you will see how we can use it. There will be five times as much before I am through, or else I am greatly mistaken. You need not mention to any one at the hospital what I am doing. It is just as well for people not to know too much, see?"

Nance helped her father to carry up the supplies and store them carefully away. She longed to know what he intended to do with such a quantity of provisions, but somehow she did not dare to question him any further.

Martin sat for a long time before the fire that night after Nance had gone to bed. He held a book in his hand, though he read but little. His thoughts were elsewhere, and an occasional sigh escaped his lips. At length he arose and crossed the room to his cot, and drew forth from beneath it a small box. This he opened and took out a little package, carefully wrapped in an old piece of faded brown paper. Carrying this back to the fire, he sat down. His hand trembled slightly as he undid the covering and looked upon the newspaper clipping which was exposed to view. Long years had passed since he had last read the story of his shame and disgrace. He had never desired to do so since Nance had come into his life. But now he wished to read that account once again. With the new impulse that had come to him he believed that he could do so without any of the old feeling rising in his heart to torture him as formerly.

Carefully he read every word, and then laid the clipping upon the book lying on the table by his side, and gave himself up to thought. His whole past life rose before him with wonderful clearness. Nothing was omitted. He wished to view everything before shutting it out from his mind, as he believed, forever. A new man was rising within him, which was to cast off the old.

It was late when he rose from the chair, closed the book, placed it upon the shelf, and then threw himself upon his cot.

THE KEEPSAKE

Every day Nurse Marion was kept busy at the hospital. She had three injured men to look after now instead of one, and from early morn until late at night she cared for her patients. She found Nance of great assistance, and looked forward to her arrival every afternoon. In fact, she was more drawn to this maiden of the wilderness than to any other woman she had met for years. She was charmed with her simplicity and naturalness of manner. There was nothing artificial about her. She had none of the languid veneer of many of the young women in towns and cities. She was so anxious to learn, and quick in acquiring knowledge, that the nurse was delighted. During the few weeks that they were together it was remarkable the progress Nance made in the ways of house-keeping, sewing, and cooking, as well as looking after the patients.

Beryl needed a companion upon whom she could depend. For years her life had been a lonely one, notwithstanding her constant activity. People loved her, and the miners down river almost worshipped her. For them there had always been a ready smile and a sympathetic word of cheer or comfort. But none knew of the great sorrow which had come into her life years before, nor the heaviness of her heart at times as she went about her daily duties. Try as she might she could not banish from her mind the one who had been the cause of her sorrow. Hers was not a nature which could lightly put away precious memories and reach out and enjoy things which were new. Her love had been too deep and sacred to be cast off at the least pretext or provocation. She had often heard young people talking about love as something that could be worn to-day like a beautiful robe and cast aside to-morrow and forgotten. Of such a love she knew nothing. Love to her was an inseparable attribute, constantly with her, and forming a part of her very being as the fragrance is to the rose.

Of her past life, and the longing which still dwelt in her heart for the one whom she had never expected to see again, she could not speak to others. The mere idea of bringing forth all of those memories for people to gaze upon and discuss was most horrible to her sensitive nature. There was nothing in common, not the slightest link, between the ones she daily met and her own past life. They could lavish their affection upon her, praise her, and admire her, but still she felt alone. She could touch the world of activity and seem to take her place naturally among men and women, but they could not enter into her life. There she had remained alone until Nance crossed her path. Then a marvellous change had taken place. Nance was not only different from others she had met, but she was the one link between the past and the present.

To no one had Beryl breathed Martin's name after his disgrace. But with Nance it was otherwise. She could talk to her freely about him with no reserve whatsoever. During their quiet afternoon hours each day she skilfully drew from Nance the story of her young life as far back as she could remember. Often Beryl's eyes would fill with tears as she listened to the brave, earnest struggle Martin had made to care for the waif of the wild, and to develop her mind. Nance told her story well, and the listener hung on every word with the most intense interest. Often the nurse would watch Nance as she moved about the room. She was really Martin's child. He had stamped upon her his own personality. She even spoke as he did, and Beryl noted that she pronounced certain words with the same accent that she knew was peculiar to Martin. The more she was with Nance, and learned from her lips of what her foster-father had done for her, the more deeply wrung was Beryl's heart. She recalled the fierce denunciations which had been heaped upon him after his fall, while she alone had been silent. A great longing now came into her heart to publish to the world the story of what he had done for an orphan child in the northern wilderness. If those who had denounced him the most bitterly only knew, she often said to herself, would they not think of him in a different light, and judge him less harshly?

"You must be very happy here, nurse," Nance naïvely remarked one afternoon, as the two were sitting by the window.

"Why, what makes you think so?" was the surprised reply.

"Because you are so beautiful, and do so much good to others."

Nurse Marion's cheeks flushed, and her head bent lower over her work.

"Do you know," and she lifted her eyes to her companion's face, "that I have often thought the same thing about you?"

"About me! Oh, nurse, what could make you think such a thing?"

"You are pretty, happy, and you have done much."

"I never knew that I was pretty until Dick told me, and I am glad that I am—for his sake. But what have I done in life? I have had no chance like you."

"If I am not mistaken, Nance, you have done very much for a lonely man. Did you ever think how strange it is that your father—I can't help calling him that—should have left the ways of civilisation to bury himself here in the wilderness?"

"I have thought about it at times, and I once spoke of it to daddy."

"And what did he say?"

"He did not answer me, but such a sorrowful expression came into his eyes that I never had the heart to ask him again."

"I have thought very much about it, Nance," the nurse continued. "There surely must have been some great trouble in his past life which sent him away from his friends and relatives. Did you ever think about that?"

"Why, no!"

"It must have been something terrible, whatever it was, and his heart must have been full of the deepest despair. Now, suppose you had not come into his life, what do you think would have happened?"

"I do not know. Do you?"

"Not altogether, but I can partly imagine. He might have united himself to the Indians, and lived like one of them, or, what is more likely, he would have brooded over his trouble, until, on the verge of despair, he might have ended his life."

"Oh! do you think so?" and Nance clasped her hands before her, while her eyes looked big with wonder. "Would daddy have done that?"

"He might have done so if he had not found you. You have been his guardian angel during his long life in this country. Upon you he has lavished his affections. For you he lived and toiled. You brought out the best that was in him. You do not know, you cannot fully understand now what great things you have done for him. He might have been dead, or worse than dead, but for you."

Stirred by her deep emotions, Nurse Marion had risen to her feet, and was standing over Nance. Her face was flushed, and her eyes glowed with the light of excitement. She checked herself almost instantly, however, upon observing her companion's wondering look. With a slight forced laugh she straightened herself up, and resumed her former calm manner.

All through the evening Nance thought over what the nurse had said about her father. She quietly studied him as he sat smoking before the fire. She had always known that she owed much to him, but that she had done anything in return was an altogether new idea. If there had been great trouble in his past life, why had he not mentioned it to her? she wondered. Perhaps the nurse was mistaken in what she had surmised. The thought that she knew for a certainty whereof she spoke never once entered Nance's mind. But there came to her the remembrance of her father's peculiar action at times, especially since the arrival of the miners. This had often puzzled her. She had spoken of it to Dick, why not mention it to Nurse Marion as well? It would relieve her mind, at any rate, to talk it over with a woman. She would do so the next day, so she decided.

When Nance crossed over to the hospital the following afternoon she found Dick there. He and the nurse were both greatly excited, caused by the can of gold, which was before them on the table.

"It was on the sill just outside when I opened the door this morning," Nurse Marion explained as Nance approached. "I could not understand what was the meaning of it until I discovered this note," and she pointed to the slip of paper.

"For the new church, from one who wishes to remain unknown."

That was all, and as Nance scanned the words she felt sure that she recognised her father's handwriting. Then she glanced toward the can, and it, too, looked familiar. Though she had not seen it for years she remembered now the first time she had looked upon it, when the Indians had brought it over the mountains from the trading post, filled with tea. The picture of a beautiful flower on the outside had interested her greatly, and she had often looked upon it as a child as it sat upon the shelf against the wall. Then it had disappeared, and she had forgotten about it until now.

"I haven't the least idea who has given all this gold for the church building."

Nance heard Dick utter these words, but his voice appeared far away, and she herself seemed to be dreaming. Her father had given the gold she was quite certain. He must have taken it from the strong-room, and brought it over at night. But why did he wish his name to be unknown? Why had he given all of this for the church when he himself would not attend service?

She took a seat by the side of the little table and watched Dick as he emptied out the gold. What beautiful nuggets there were, both large and small.

"My! they look good," the missionary exclaimed. "How fascinating they are. There will be enough to finish the church, I do believe."

"Some one has a big heart," Nurse Marion replied, looking down thoughtfully upon the gleaming pile before her. "How strange that he should have left it at my door."

Nance listened to the conversation, but said nothing. She was unusually quiet. She longed to tell all she knew about the gold. But this she must not do. Her father did not wish any one to know what he had done, so she must be true to him, and tell the secret to no one, not even to Dick. The latter noted her silence, and wondered what was the matter.

"What are you going to do with the can?" she at length asked.

"Keep the gold in it, of course. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I hardly know, except—that—if you were not going to use it, I should like to have it."

"For a keepsake?"

"Yes. But if you need it, never mind."

"Why, you are welcome to it. I can put the gold in something else."

Nance said no more then, but that evening as she was leaving the hospital she picked up the can, and wrapped it up carefully in the apron she had been wearing that afternoon. Dick was waiting to accompany her home, and an amused smile played about the corners of his mouth as he observed what she was doing.

Nurse Marion watched them as they left the building, and walked slowly down to the river. They were so happy in each other's company that her own sense of loneliness sank deeper than ever into her soul.