If Any Man Sin

ATONEMENT

Summer passed all too soon for the miners in the valley of the Quaska. The days were shortening and the nights lengthening in an alarming manner. Great wedge-like battalions of wild geese honked their way southward each day until all had fled. A greyness settled over the land, and at night the Northern Lights flared brighter in the heavens. It was quite evident to all that winter was not far off. To the ones not prepared for its coming the outlook was not pleasant. They had but started panning out gold, and there was little prospect that they could do much more before spring.

At the approach of winter Martin once again resumed his rounds of the creeks. Many of the miners who had cleaned up a considerable amount of gold during the summer had moved down to the mouth of the river, and settled in little shacks at Quaska. These men could buy their supplies at the stores, even though the prices were exorbitant. But the ones who had met with no success could not afford such luxuries. They preferred to remain on the creeks, to hide their poverty from prying eyes, and, if possible, eke out a precarious living from any wild game they might be able to procure with their rifles.

Carrying with him sufficient food to last him for several days, Martin halted at each cabin. He was always given a hearty welcome, and won all hearts by his brightness and his optimistic spirit. To the miners he was one of themselves, and they believed that he was in the same straitened circumstances as they were. Upon leaving he was always invited to come again, and as often as possible.

Martin returned home at the end of each week. During his absence Nance stayed with Nurse Marion, for her assistance was needed now at the hospital more than ever, owing to the number of patients who had been admitted. Martin was always eager to hear all the news from across the river, and he would sit and listen while Nance recounted everything. She told him about the church; that it was all finished, and how it was opened each night for the men to gather to play games, and to read the few books which the missionary had brought with him.

"We might let some of our books go, eh?" and Martin nodded toward the volumes upon the shelves.

"Oh, that would be so nice, daddy," Nance replied. "The men will be delighted. May I take several over to-morrow?"

"No, not now. It will be better to wait until winter settles in. If they read them all now they will have nothing when the evenings are long and cold. Wait until then."

Nance was greatly pleased at the change which had come over Martin. He talked more, and the worried, haunted expression had left his eyes. She often spoke about him to Nurse Marion, and the latter was never tired of listening to her, and she would occasionally question Nance about her father.

The next time that Martin left his house for the creeks he carried with him his violin. At every cabin he was doubly welcomed now, and often he would play for hours to a handful of men who had drifted into the shack which he happened to be visiting. He sang, too, and at times the miners would join in when the tune and the words were familiar. He was surprised at first to find how frequently the men asked for some well-known hymn, and as they all sang it he noted the expression upon their faces. He knew that they were face to face with a hard proposition, and needed something to keep up their spirits.

Thus from cabin to cabin he moved, bringing cheer and comfort wherever he went. The men were loth for him to leave and always pressed him to stay longer. As the days shortened, and the long evenings became almost unbearable, the lonely men counted the days and the hours which would bring Martin and his violin once again to their doors. They could not understand him now, and often discussed among themselves why he should make such regular rounds of the creeks. Although they knew where he lived, and how long he had been in the country, he would never talk about himself. This added to the mystery concerning him. What can he be doing it for? they asked over and over again. Some believed that it was for the enjoyment he got out of it, and the companionship of the miners. But when he spent a whole week with Andy Henderson, caring for him when he was sick, the miners did not know what to think.

"If he was a parson," one remarked, "the whole thing would be clear."

"Sure thing," another replied. "But he never says a word about religion."

"Doesn't he, eh? That's where you are mistaken. His is a religion of deeds and not words. If he had come here and handed out a whole lot of talk about being patient under discouragements how much good would it have done us? Mighty little, I can tell you that. But he drops in on us with a word of cheer, and brings along his fiddle. That's the religion which gets me every time."

Winter shut down unusually early, and gripped the northland in its icy embrace. Every time Martin made his rounds of the creeks he noticed the grim spectre of famine and despair creeping upon the miners in their desolate cabins. They scoured the land for miles around in search of game, with but meagre success, for the moose and caribou had withdrawn farther afield upon the arrival of the white men. To follow them far the miners had not the strength. They had been living upon short allowance for some time, and every day their small supplies were becoming much diminished. Several, feeling the pinch of want, went to the stores in town, and asked to be supplied with food on credit until spring. Their request was refused, and with hearts rankling with bitterness they marched back up the creek to bear the news to their companions. The proud spirit of this little band of men was aroused, and they swore that they would die rather than ask again for any food from Quaska. They, accordingly, shared their scanty remaining supply with one another with the feeling that when this was gone there was nothing before them but death.

Winter was now upon them in all its fierceness. The weather was extremely cold, and snow lay thick over the land. At this critical time Martin one day appeared at the cabin nearest to Quaska. He was not alone this time, for he had a sled loaded with provisions, and drawn by two husky dogs he had borrowed from Taku, the Indian.

"Had more grub on hand than I needed," was his brief explanation to the miners as they stared longingly upon the loaded sled.

Then throughout the creeks he moved, dispensing supplies wherever he went, and when all was gone he hurried back for more. His feverish eagerness to be doing something for others was what puzzled the miners. He was now more of a mystery than ever. Whereas at first they considered him as one of themselves they came at last to look upon him as some unearthly being, an angel in the form of a man, who had dropped from heaven to aid them in their distress. Who else could it be? they reasoned, who would go to so much trouble for a few lonely men, hard up in a desolate region? It was no ordinary spirit, they well knew, which would drive a man out into such cruel weather for the sake of others.

In a few weeks the news of what Martin was doing reached Quaska, and passed from man to man, causing much curious comment on every hand. In some way the refusal of the storekeepers to provide starving men with provisions leaked out, and caused considerable stir among the leading men of the place, especially Tom. They went at once to the stores, and ordered supplies for their comrades up the creeks, while several volunteered to carry forward the provisions.

"Who will pay for these things?" the storekeepers whined.

"Pay!" Tom fairly shouted the words. "D'ye think we'd come here an' order this stuff without holdin' ourselves responsible? Ye deserve to be cleaned out an' driven from town fer yer meanness. Ye've not only raised the price of yer goods beyond all reason, but ye refused to supply a few poor chaps who were starvin' to death, an' they never mentioned it to a livin' soul. That's what ye've done."

So high did the feeling run in Quaska over the meanness of the storekeepers that a miners' meeting was held that very night, when Tom was appointed chairman. Fiery speeches of indignation were made, and it was decided that the storekeepers had to come down in their prices. They would be allowed to have fair profits on all they sold, but extortion had to be stopped at once. If they would not agree to this, so it was decided, their goods would be seized, paid for at cost price, and they themselves driven out of the town. In fear and trembling the storekeepers agreed to the demands of the irate miners, and so the storm blew over.

The news of Martin's noble work out on the creeks was not long in reaching the hospital. It was Tom who told the story in his own graphic manner. Nance was delighted when she heard what her father was doing, and told how he had stored up the provisions before the winter had set in.

"I didn't know what he was going to do with it," she said in conclusion, "for he would not tell me."

As Nurse Marion listened to the story her mind was busy seeking for the cause of Martin's benevolent work. At last it came to her, and she knew that there was only one reason which could prompt him to do such things. He was trying to atone for the past, and at once there came to her mind the fierce struggle which had been going on in his heart for long years. What a battle he must have fought, and how great the victory. The old self had been crushed down, and in its stead a new life of service, contrite and humble, had risen, which had driven him forth to live for others. She understood now for a certainty that though Martin had fallen and could never be forgiven by the critical world which had condemned him, yet in reality he was superior to his critics. He had sadly missed the mark, and had fallen. But he had fought a brave fight, had risen from the pit, and with a courage which nothing could daunt was now plunging into a noble work for others. As she thought of all this a sweet peace stole into her heart. Martin was worthy of her affection, after all, and her love had not been misplaced during the years she had been loyal to him while others had condemned.

Knowing nothing of the stir he was causing at Quaska, Martin continued his work of relief up and down the creeks. For weeks he moved from cabin to cabin, carrying food where it was most needed. But his own supply was getting low, and only one sled load now remained. He knew that to obtain more he would have to go direct to the stores, which he was now very loth to do.

He was travelling late one cold afternoon far up a lonely creek, many miles from Quaska. He had only a small part of his load of provisions and he wished to carry this to a man living all alone, who was in great need. Of all the miners he had met Tim Ralston seemed the most obdurate and ungrateful. He was a man of few words, sullen and morose. His hard luck during the past summer had embittered him more than ever, and living alone he had brooded so much over his troubles that his mind became somewhat affected. He would rave long and vehemently about his hard luck, the country, and the hopelessness of the future. Martin had visited him once before, and had received such a cold reception that he had been by no means anxious to return. But as the severity of the winter increased he found it difficult to get Tim out of his mind. He knew that he must be hard up for food, and he could not allow the man to starve to death without making an effort to relieve his wants.

It was late in the afternoon as Martin at last halted before Tim's cabin. It was bitterly cold, and a volume of smoke was curling up into the frosty air from the miserable stove-pipe sticking out through the roof. He knocked, but received no reply. Thinking this strange, he pushed open the door, and cautiously entered. All was dark within, but very warm. Feeling in his pocket, he found a piece of a candle, which he at once lighted. By means of this he saw the form of a man huddled on the floor, with some blankets wrapped around him. It was Tim with beard almost to his waist, and long, matted hair streaming over his shoulders. He hardly resembled a human being as he crouched there, working his jaws, and swaying his body to and fro.

"Tim, Tim, what's the matter?" Martin cried as he strode forward and stood by the side of the poor creature.

The latter lifted his shaggy head at the sound of these words, and turned his blood-shot eyes upon Martin's face.

"Leg broke," he feebly wailed. "Starving! Dying!"

Martin lost no more time in asking questions. He hurried outside, freed the dogs, and drew the sled with its load into the wretched cabin. He set to work at once to prepare some food for the afflicted man, and then fed him like a baby. All through the night he tended him, doing everything in his power to relieve his sufferings, which were very great. He knew, however, that he needed more aid than he could give. To remain there meant death for Tim. The only hope was to get him into the hospital at Quaska, where he could receive proper care, and attention.

Martin had no intention of going straight to the hospital with the suffering man, for there he would meet Beryl. He would take him to his own house, and let the missionary do the rest.

At the first faint streak of dawn Martin began to make preparations for the run to Quaska. The injured man groaned and cursed as he was wrapped up as comfortably as possible in his blankets, and placed upon the sled. This latter was made in the form of a toboggan, and it would accordingly travel where an ordinary sled with runners could not be taken. Martin was most thankful that such was the case, for he could make a short cut to Quaska over a mountain-pass, and down a long valley instead of going by the much longer circuitous route he had taken on his outward trip. He believed that he could save a whole day by crossing the mountain, which would mean very much to the sufferer.

The air was clear and cold when at last the two huskies, with short, sharp yelps, pulled away from the cabin on their stern run to save the life of Tim Ralston. Martin strode on ahead, breaking down a trail with his long, narrow snow-shoes. All day they pressed forward, and when night shut down Martin was satisfied with the progress they had made during the day. Selecting a sheltered spot among a thick clump of fir trees, he dug away the snow, built a fire, and prepared camp.

Little sleep came to his eyes this night. Tim was more restless than ever, and he had to be watched constantly lest he should toss aside his blankets, and thus perish. Notwithstanding the fire which Martin kept going, he found it very cold, for, while his face was burning, his back was freezing. Only twice did he doze off, overcome by fatigue and want of sleep. But he always aroused with a start, fearful lest he had slept too long.

All through the next day he plodded on ahead of the dogs, at times helping them by means of a rope around his shoulders, for the snow over the mountain was deep, and the sled dragged hard with its heavy burden. That night they camped upon the brow of the range facing Quaska. Far down below stretched a long valley, with towering hills on both sides. Again Martin was well pleased with the progress they had made, and he expected that with one day more of such travelling they would not be far from Quaska, if not there.

In the morning when they once more drew away from camp the sky was cloudless, and as they descended the mountain side the air became warmer. The short winter sun lifted its shining face into view, and rode along for a while close to the horizon. But toward noon a perceptible change became apparent in the atmospheric conditions. The sky grew cloudy, and the sun disappeared behind a thick haze. Ere long a stiff breeze was swinging down the valley, telling Martin only too plainly that a storm was rapidly brewing.

The region through which they were now travelling was desolate in the extreme. Fires had swept over the land years before, and nothing remained but gaunt fir trees and jack-pines, dead and devoid of every vestige of life. Through their naked branches swept the ever-increasing wind, piercing the bodies of both men and dogs. No shelter was anywhere to be seen, and Martin's only hope was to push on as rapidly as possible and reach the unburnt forest miles down the valley. He knew only too well what it would mean to be caught in a storm on that bleak mountain slope where everything would be blotted out from view, and where the tempest might rage all day and far on into the night.

Calling encouragingly to the dogs, and with the lead rope about his shoulders, Martin started forward as speedily as the deep snow would permit. The huskies strained at their traces, yelped, lowered their heads, and surged onward close at their master's heels. An hour thus passed, and the wind, increasing in strength every moment, was roaring down the valley, while particles of driving snow began to fleck the bodies of the hurrying wayfarers. In another half-hour the air was filled with blinding snow, which drove down lashingly upon them, completely blotting out everything from view except the swaying, spectre-like forms of the nearest trees.

As the wind was full astern, Martin believed that by running straight before it he could keep his course, and at length gain the shelter beyond. He nerved himself to the task, and strained hard upon the rope. But ere long the dogs began to lag, whine, and surge back in their harness. Coaxing and whipping did no good, for with the tempest upon them they refused to advance, and cowered upon the snow. Hastily unhitching the discouraged animals, Martin made his rope fast to the sled, and thus alone endeavoured to drag it forward. It was a hard pull, and slow progress did he make. The helpless man cursed and groaned as he felt the fierceness of the storm beating upon him, and the snow drifting in through every opening of his blankets. Martin could not waste time and breath in trying to soothe him. There was too much at stake, for unless he reached the forest beyond they must both surely perish.

For another hour Martin tugged at the rope, with bent head, and feet shuffling the snow-shoes through the newly-fallen snow. At last Tim cried aloud, saying that he was freezing. Then Martin paused, stripped off his own jacket, and wrapped it around the sufferer's body. He then carefully replaced the blankets which he had removed, and once again took up his weary task.

The wind now pierced him cruelly, and chilled him to the bone. His hands became numb, although he pounded them together in an effort to keep the blood in circulation. At times his brain reeled, and he felt that he could go no farther. But each time he thought of Nance. How could she get along without him? he asked himself. Beryl, too, came to his mind. She seemed to come to him through the storm, and he saw her, not at the hospital, but as he used to see her in the happy days of old. The sight of her had always inspired him then, as it did now in his fight with death. He must not give up, he said to himself. Anyway, if he was to die, it should be with his face to the front, and shoulders to his task. Then if Beryl should ever learn of the struggle he had made, it might do something to atone for the past. She might not think of him so bitterly, as no doubt she had done ever since his fall.

And still the storm continued to wrap around him its cold winding-sheet, entangling his feet, and endeavouring to win him for a victim. Martin was a stern antagonist, however, and fought off his relentless foe with the courage of desperation. He would fight; he would win; he would not give up. But slower and slower now he moved; fiercer and fiercer roared the tempest about him. Peculiar noises sounded in his ears, and weird voices of demons mocked at his futile efforts to stand upright, and to press forward. He saw them leering before him, reaching out their horrible hands to clutch him. Then his brain reeled, a fearful blackness shrouded his eyes, and with a despairing cry he fell forward full length upon the snow.

REVELATION

The new mission room proved a great boon to the miners at Quaska. When it was first opened very few visited the place, and the missionary felt somewhat discouraged. But Tom told him not to worry, as they would be sure to come later.

"Jist wait, pard," he said, "until the nights git long an' cold, then ye'll see 'em come, an' mighty glad they'll be to have a spot to drop into instid of sittin' in their lonely shacks."

"But perhaps they'll go to the saloons instead," Dick replied. "Won't they feel more at home there?"

"Not a bit of it. Some will go, to be sure. But all can't go, an' all won't want to go. Jist ye wait, an' see."

In due time Tom's words came true, and every night saw the mission room filled with men. Some came at first rather doubtfully, thinking, perhaps, that they were to get a sermon before they left. But when they found the room warm, bright, and filled with such genial company they were delighted. All they were asked to do was to obey certain rules which Dick had posted up in several places. Tom was the presiding genius, even though the missionary was present, and always made every man thoroughly at home by his hearty greeting.

"Ye're as welcome as the night is long," he would exclaim to each newcomer. "This is Liberty Hall, with only a few exceptions," and he would nod toward the rules. "Ye're not to use any cuss words, ye mustn't fight nor gamble, nor come here with a reekin' whiskey breath."

Only once did a bumptious young miner attempt to ignore such instructions. His stay was brief, for as many men as could lay hands upon him hustled him out of the building, with the warning not to return until he could behave in a proper manner.

Dick was not only pleased at the success of the mission room, but he was very thankful to see how the men attended service every Sunday evening. But there was one thing lacking. More reading matter was needed, and though he had placed his few books at the disposal of the men, they still craved for more. The papers and magazines he had expected from the Mission down river, for some reason, did not arrive. He spoke about it to Nance the morning after the storm.

"The room would be complete if we only had something more for the men to read. They are about wild for books and magazines. They have already devoured everything in my small library, and some of the men are reading the books all over again."

Nance glanced at Dick's worried face, and her eyes dropped as they met his. An idea came into her mind, and she was on the point of speaking when she checked herself. No, she would surprise Dick, and that would make it all the more interesting.

They were standing close to each other, and as Dick looked upon Nance he thought that she never seemed so beautiful. There was such a simplicity about her manner, combined with a deep interest in any of his undertakings. Her hands were clasped before her as she stood there looking around the room. How he longed to take those hands in his, and tell her of all that was in his heart. It was not the first time that he had desired to do so, but he had always desisted. He believed that she cared for him, but he wanted her to do more than that. He wished to be sure that she loved him. He was so happy in her presence that he feared if he told her all that his heart prompted him to tell it might break the spell, and cause her to avoid him.

Dick Russell was not much acquainted with the ways of women. Hitherto little time or opportunity had been his to devote to the tender affections. And in truth he had but slight inclination to do so until he met Nance. He could not, therefore, read the look of love in her eyes, nor comprehend the flush which suffused her face whenever he approached. Could he have done so he would not have hesitated about telling her of his over-mastering love.

All that afternoon Nance remained with Nurse Marion at the hospital. She thought much about her father, and wondered if he was safely sheltered in some miner's cabin. He was in her mind more than usual, and during the night as she listened to the storm she felt uneasy as to his welfare. Even after she had fallen asleep she awoke with a start, thinking that he was holding out his hands to her, and calling to her for aid.

Such an impression did the vision make upon her that she could not free herself from the idea that something had happened to her father. During the morning she was more quiet than the nurse had ever seen her.

The storm had cleared in the night, and after dinner Nance put on her snow-shoes, and left the hospital. It was Saturday, the day her father always came home, and it was her custom to have a cheerful fire awaiting him, and supper ready. She found the house more cold and desolate than it had ever appeared to her before. But when she had a bright fire blazing up, the room looked more comfortable and homelike.

Nance sat near the fire warming herself, for she was cold. She thought of the many times she had sat there with Martin by her side. Then for the first time the sense of loneliness came upon her. She felt home-sick, and longed for Martin. She wanted to have him near her, and listen to his voice. She wished to be a child once again, and to sit upon his knee while he told her stories. She had fondly imagined that she would be supremely happy to be away from the log house, and out into the great world beyond. But now she realised that no matter where she might go, no place could ever be so dear to her as this rude home where she had spent so many happy years.

She looked about the room upon all that Martin had done, and the various things that he had made for her comfort. She had always appreciated his efforts on her behalf, but now a different feeling stole into her heart, and tears came into her eyes. How she longed to see him again, that she might tell him what he was to her, and to thank him for so much kindness.

At length, brushing away her tears, she rose to her feet, and crossed the room to the book-shelves. Standing there, she looked for a while upon the volumes which Martin had read with such enjoyment through the long winter evenings. He had said that she might take them over to the reading-room when the miners needed them most. Surely now was the time, and when her father came home she would speak to him about them. How surprised and delighted Dick would be when she carried an armful over the next day.

Reaching up her hand, she brought down a volume which was lying on top of several others. As she looked at the title, she believed that the miners would like it. It had been years since she had read it, but she remembered how delighted she had been with it at the time. The hero in the book had appealed to her very strongly. She had not met Dick Russell then, and she mused for a while about the difference between her present idea of a hero to that of years ago. Then Martin was the only white man she knew, and she had never looked upon him as a hero. Her heroes were like those mentioned in books, men of war and action, who had accomplished great things.

Going back to the fire, Nance ensconced herself in Martin's big chair, and opened the book. As she did so a newspaper clipping lying between the leaves attracted her attention. Wondering what it could be, she laid the book upon her lap, unfolded the paper, and began to read. She had not proceeded far when her face went white as death, and her hand trembled violently. She rubbed her eyes to make sure that she was not dreaming. The printed columns fascinated her, and she read on and on until she came to the end of the sad tale of shame and disgrace.

The whole truth now flashed into Nance's mind with a startling intensity. Her brain reeled, her heart seemed numbed at the shock, and the light of life, with all its joy, went out. She stared long and hard at the heading of the article. "Deposed by his Bishop." How terrible seemed those words. And there was the name of the man who had fallen, "The Rev. Martin Rutland." Again she read through the entire story, every word of criticism, scorn, and condemnation searing her heart like red-hot iron. Could it be possible that this was some one else? she asked herself. She knew very well that it could not be, for why then should her father have the clipping in his possession? A groan escaped her parched lips as she endeavoured to view calmly the whole situation.

Many things which had hitherto puzzled her were instantly cleared up, and she understood for the first time the reason of Martin's peculiar actions since the arrival of the miners. She knew why he had fled away from the ways of civilisation to live alone in the wilderness. He did not wish to meet people who knew of his disgrace. This, too, was why he would not go to service on Sunday. And to think that for years he had been deceiving her. While she believed him to be so true and noble, he was in reality a man utterly disgraced, an outcast from the Church and society.

A feeling of bitter resentment rushed into her heart. Why had he treated her thus? Why had he pretended to be so good when all the time he was evil, and his whole life a sham? How could she ever face him again, knowing everything, and what he really was? He might return at any moment, and find her sitting there with the clipping in her hand. She did not want to meet him, for she felt that she could not bear to do so. She must get away, and hurry back to the hospital.

Carefully replacing the paper in the book, Nance went back to the shelf from which she had taken it. She paused and looked around the room, thinking that perhaps this would be the last time that she should ever see it again. Everywhere she beheld the work of Martin's hands: the tables, chairs, and decorations on the walls. She turned and walked to her own little room, which she entered. There, too, she saw how he had fitted up everything for her comfort. Then in an instant there came to her a great reversal of feeling. Martin, the outcast, disappeared, and in his stead she beheld a man strong, patient, and gentle, who had been to her both a father and a mother during her whole life. She thought of what he had done for her, how he had striven for her welfare, and cared for her when she would have been left to the uncertain mercy of the Indians. A love deep and strong filled her heart for this man. She pictured to herself how he must have suffered during his exile in the wilderness, knowing that nothing could ever undo the past, and that he would never be forgiven by the Church which had cast him out. If she turned against him would it not break his heart entirely? No, she would be faithful, and he should never know that she had seen the paper, or had the least idea of his past life. It would remain a secret with her, and she would never breathe a word to any one, not even to Dick.

Nance was standing erect in her room as this resolve firmly fixed itself upon her mind. Her face became radiant with a new light, and her eyes shone with the intensity of her great purpose. For a while she stood there, thinking deep, earnest thoughts. A new sense of responsibility came to her. She now saw that life was not all joy and happiness. There was a tragic depth beneath into which for the first time she had been permitted a brief glimpse.

And while standing there she heard some one calling her by name. Hurrying forth from her room, she saw Dick coming to meet her. There was no smile upon his face, but instead an expression of deep concern was depicted there, such as Nance had never seen before. Something had happened, she felt certain, for what else could make Dick look at her in that way?

"What is it?" she gasped. "There's something the matter, I'm sure."

"You are wanted at the hospital, Nance," was the reply.

"Is Nurse Marion ill?"

"No. It's your father."

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOWS

Outwardly Nance was very calm as she closed the door and swiftly put on her snow-shoes. But her heart was heating rapidly, and she was filled with grave apprehensions.

"What is it?" she asked as she moved along over the snow by Dick's side. "Don't hide anything from me. I want to know all."

"There is but little to tell, Nance," the young man replied. "It seems that the Indian Taku was awakened last night by the whining of one of his dogs outside the cabin door. When he had let the animal in he found that it was one of the two your father had taken with him. The poor creature was almost exhausted. It was carrying its harness and dragging its traces. Taku surmised that something was wrong and he at once started forth in the direction from which the dog had come. The storm had ceased, and the moon was full when he set out, so it was easy for him to follow the dog's tracks. They led away from Quaska, up the river, and then off to the left through that long wooded valley. He had passed only a short distance out of the woods on the upper side into a desolate region, when he found a miner, Tim Ralston, with a broken leg, lying on a sled. By his side was your father, unconscious, and to all appearance dead. With much difficulty Taku brought both men into the woods, made a small fire, and started off in post-haste for help. As luck would have it, he overtook Tom, who had been storm-stayed up the creek, and together they brought the two helpless men to the hospital. That, in brief, is the story."

As Dick ended, Nance stopped, laid her hand lightly upon his arm, and looked searchingly into his face.

"Will he live?" she gasped.

"I can't say. He has been terribly exposed. I am afraid it will go hard with him."

"And he did it for Tim!" Nance murmured. "He gave his life to save another."

Her thoughts flashed to the newspaper clipping, and her heart rebuked her for her harsh judgment but a short time before. Now she understood the motive of her father's unceasing efforts on behalf of the miners, especially this last and greatest sacrifice of all. She did not, however, reveal her knowledge to Dick, but hastened on, anxious to reach Martin's side as soon as possible. Arriving at length at the hospital door, she and Dick laid aside their snow-shoes, and quietly entered. All was still within as they passed through the main ward into Nurse Marion's room.

Here Martin was lying upon the one cot the room contained, and by his side sat the nurse. She did not hear the steps at the door, for her thoughts were upon the unconscious man before her. In her eyes was an expression which had not been seen there since the days when he so often visited her in her old home years before. She was thinking of that time now, and she was picturing Martin as she then knew him. At first it was hard for her to believe that this bronzed and bearded man was the same as she had known then and cherished in her memory ever since. She studied his face and saw there something of the terrible struggle through which he had passed. She imagined his agony of mind after his fall, and what it must have meant for him to live away in the wilderness, cut off from all the benefits of civilised life. No sense of anger or reproach came to her mind now as she sat there, but only a pity and a love, such as she had never known, possessed her heart.

Nance paused but for an instant at the door, and then with a cry hurried forward, and knelt by the side of the bed. She seized Martin's right hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips.

"Daddy! daddy!" she cried. "I am here. Speak to me. It is Nance."

But no sign of recognition came from the unconscious form upon the cot. As Nance continued to press the outstretched hand, Nurse Marion rose and walked over to the window, and looked out upon the world of snow beyond. Tumultuous thoughts surged suddenly through her mind as she saw Nance kneeling by the bed and listened to her wailing cry. What right had this girl to supplant her? Had she been all sufficient to Martin, and had he forgotten Beryl, to whom he had given his heart and hand? For the first time in years a revulsion of feeling swept upon her. She had been a fool to believe that Martin had remembered her. He cared only for Nance, and his first love had grown cold. Years of separation had done it, and what vain fancy had led her to imagine that he still cared for her? She saw it now as never before. She must get away from the place. But where should she go, with the rivers frozen and the land snow-locked on every side?

Those few moments had wrought a marvellous transformation in Nurse Marion's face. It was calm—terribly calm—when at last she went back to Martin's side. She was the professional nurse now, ready to do her duty to the utmost, but no more. She had other patients in the hospital to care for, and she busied herself with them during most of the day. She had little to say to the watchers by Martin's side, and they, occupied with their deep anxiety, did not notice her unusual silence. Then, when all her other tasks were done, she sat with Nance and Dick through the long hours of the night. She had to be doing something, so she brought her needle-work, and though her fingers were busy, and at times her head drooped, she hardly realised what she was doing.

Since he had been brought into the hospital Martin had not shown the least sign of consciousness. He had lain as one in a deep sleep. But as the night wore away, and the dawn of a new day was breaking he began to move, and then to toss restlessly upon the cot. At last he opened his eyes and stared vacantly around the room.

"Tim! Tim!" he called. "Are you cold? Here's my jacket. It'll keep you warm."

His eyes next roved to the watchers near by until they rested upon the nurse's face. He did not seem at all surprised to see her there.

"Beryl."

At that word the needle-work dropped from the nurse's hand, her face went white as death, though she uttered not a sound.

"Are the hymns all ready, Beryl?" Martin continued. "It's almost church time, and I can't wait any longer."

"He thinks you are Beryl," Nance whispered. But the nurse made no reply. She sat erect, rigid, with staring eyes fixed full upon the man before her.

A troubled expression now came into Martin's eyes, and his fingers moved over the blanket as if in search of something. "I can't find them," he murmured. "The bread—the wine—some one has hidden them. Ah, ah, here they are," and his fingers closed eagerly upon some imaginary objects. Then a semblance of a smile flickered about the corners of his mouth, and his voice was low and reverent as his lips moved—"Take—and eat—this—in remembrance—that Christ—died—for thee—and feed—on Him——"

His voice trailed off into silence, and for a while he lay very still. "Ah, ah!" he cried, starting suddenly up, while a fierce light glowed in his eyes, "I defy you! The Church is nothing to me, and I will live without it! Get out of my house, you impostor," he roared, looking now at Dick. "You come here to steal Nance from me! But you won't get her! No, by heavens! she shall never be yours! The Church! The Church! I don't care for the Church! It has cast me out. I will live without it! Get out, I say. Don't torture me! For God's sake, go!"

To say that the missionary was surprised at the remarks of this raving man is putting it too mildly. He was astounded. What could be the meaning of it all? he asked himself. Why did he refer to the hymns, repeat those words of the Communion Service, and speak so fiercely about the Church? Was it possible that this man had once been a clergyman? The idea came to him now with a startling intensity. In an instant there flashed into his mind Martin's peculiar actions ever since he had known him, his strange behaviour and fitful moods. Was this the reason, then, why this educated man had lived for long years in the wilderness? Had he been deposed by the Church in which he had once been a clergyman? Dick knew now that such must have been the case, and a feeling such as he had never before experienced came upon him. He sank into the chair he had recently vacated, and buried his face in his hands. He had at times heard of men who had left the Ministry through some misdemeanour, but never until now did he understand what it really meant. As he listened to Martin's ravings he comprehended something of the agony of mind which had been his through his long wilderness life.

And thus the three sat, watched, and waited, as the unconscious man tossed upon the cot. There was little that they could do except think. The missionary understood a little now of the past history of the man before him, while Nance knew more. But neither realised that Nurse Marion, sitting near with hands tightly clasped upon her lap, knew all, and yet remained silent.

REFINED GOLD

For days the raging fever held Martin in its terrible grip. Never once was he conscious of his surroundings, and most trying was it for the patient watchers to listen to his wild ravings. Every night Tom came to the hospital to take his turn by the side of the sick man. In fact, he would have remained part of each day as well if he had been permitted to do so, and he always grumbled when he was ordered by Dick to go and get some sleep. Nurse Marion sat at times with Tom. She found it difficult to rest, as she did not know at what moment Martin might need more help than the miner could give.

One day she was sitting alone by the bed, with her needle-work, as usual, in her hands. The sufferer was still and to all appearance asleep. Sounds of the violin came from the outer room, where Nance was playing softly for the benefit of the few patients who were there. The strains brought a restful feeling into the nurse's heart, for it had been weeks since she had heard the sound of music. Presently her work dropped into her lap, and her hands remained idle. Her eyes gazed off through the window before her, though she saw nothing.

She was startled from her reverie by a light touch upon her hand. Glancing down, great was her surprise to see Martin looking intently into her face. In his eyes was the light of reason, mingled with surprise. The nurse was on her feet in an instant, bending over the cot.

"Hush," she soothed, as if Martin were a child awaking from sleep. "Don't speak now."

"I must," Martin feebly breathed. "Are you Beryl? I woke, and thought I was dreaming, and so I touched your hand to be sure."

"Yes, I am Beryl," was the reply. "But you must not talk any more. You are very weak."

With a deep sigh, whether of regret or contentment the nurse could not tell, Martin closed his eyes, and in a few moments passed into a restful and a natural sleep. Nurse Marion stood very still for a while watching him. Just what her thoughts were she alone knew, but her eyes were moist as she presently turned and walked softly into the large ward outside.

As the days passed Martin rapidly improved, and at length he was able to sit up. The miners came often to see him, for they all held him in high regard for what he had done for Tim. But Martin was never so happy as when Beryl was in the room. Neither had once mentioned the days years ago, and to outward eyes they were friends and nothing more. But little did people realise what was taking place in the hearts of both patient and nurse alike. Beryl was ever on her guard lest she should let slip the slightest word which might betray her inmost feelings. The bitterness of that day when Nance had first knelt by the cot had passed away. But she did not know what Martin thought of her, though at times she found his eyes fixed upon her in a puzzled way.

Martin, in fact, did not know what to make of Beryl's quiet constrained manner. If she had expressed surprise, or even upbraided him, he could have understood it. But she never alluded to the past. She waited upon him, and talked about ordinary things, but that was all. This estrangement was hard for him to endure. He began to feel that she no longer cared for him. She knew what he had done, and so was determined to treat him as any other patient. Such was the situation between the two. Each believed that the other did not care, and so both made every effort not to reveal the real feelings enshrined within their hearts.

One bright afternoon Nance and Dick crossed over the river to the lonely house to bring back some books for the Reading Room. Beryl watched them as they sped down to the river on their show-shoes—for there was no path in the deep snow. A sigh escaped her lips as she saw how happy they were. Laughingly they waved their hands to her as they reached the river, and saw her still at the window. What perfect understanding there is between them, she mused. Could any two people be more suited to each other than they?

She remained gazing after them for a while, and then went into the room where Martin was sitting. She found him near the window facing the river. His eyes were filled with an inexpressible sadness as they followed Nance and Dick until they reached the log building beyond. Beryl stood watching him for a few heart beats, and then moved softly to his side. But Martin did not look up. Instead, his whole body drooped, his head bent forward, and he buried his face in his hands as if trying to shut out something from his view.

"What is it?" Beryl asked, in a voice tremulous with emotion. "Are you not feeling well? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Beryl," and Martin lifted his face, which was now drawn and haggard.

"Yes—Martin," was the faint reply.

"Sit down, Beryl. There, that's better."'

A deep silence now reigned in the room. Martin's gaze wandered out through the window, but the nurse saw nothing. Neither did she hear anything, except the wild beating of her own heart. She longed to do something to comfort the visibly distressed man nearby. But she felt powerless, and no words could she utter.

"Why must I suffer like this, Beryl?" burst at last from Martin's lips. "There, there!" he cried, lifting a thin warning hand. "Don't speak until I am through. I know why I suffer. It's just, and what else could I expect. But, my God! is there to be no end? Is this suffering of mind—this hell, never to cease? Why did they not let me die out there in the snow?"

"Hush, hush! Martin," and Beryl rose to her feet, and laid her hand lightly upon his shoulder. "Don't talk that way! I can't stand it!"

"I must talk. Don't try to stop me. Did you see them going over the river?" he asked. "How happy they are. I am nothing to Nance now. Dick is everything, and I am only in the way. What have I to live for?"

These words caused Beryl to straighten up suddenly. The trembling emotion which had possessed her departed, leaving her very white and calm. Then it was Nance he alone cared for, she told herself. Of her only he thought. Yes, she knew now, and why had she expected anything else?

"Beryl," Martin continued, after a pause, "do you see how happy they are? They are everything to each other. We, too, might have been as happy—but—but for my——How can you look at me, or speak to me, Beryl? You know what I did, and what an outcast I am to-day from God and the Church. Is there any one in the whole world so vile as I?"

"But you have atoned for the past," Beryl soothed. "Think of what you have done."

"Done! Done! Good Lord! what have I done that can ever merit forgiveness from an avenging God? Is there any pardon for one who disgraced his sacred office, broke his parents' hearts, and denounced his Church? Men may talk lightly of sin. But they know not what they are saying, nor its terrible consequences. Nothing can wipe out such a stain as mine, which is so great. There is murder on my hands!"

"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin," Beryl gently quoted, with tears now streaming down her cheeks. "Don't you, oh, don't you believe it?"

"I believe it, but I don't feel it. It doesn't give me peace. What can wash away my sins, which are so great?"

"'If any man sin we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ, the righteous, and He is the propitiation for our sins,'" Beryl once more quoted.

"Ah, ah," and Martin slightly raised his head. "There is comfort in those words. 'If any man sin,' and 'Jesus' blood cleanseth us from all sin,' Beryl," and he now looked up full into her face. "You know how great are my sins, do you really think that they can ever be forgiven?"

Beryl at once leaned forward and caught his right hand in hers. "Martin," she cried, "I forgave you long ago, and will not He, whose love and mercy are so great, be more ready to forgive?"

Into Martin's eyes came an expression of surprise, mingled with hope.

"Do you mean it, Beryl?" he asked, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "That you forgive me? I can't believe it!"

"Yes, yes; it's true. I forgave you long ago. Even when every one denounced you I still believed in you."

"Is it possible? Is it possible?" and Martin gazed absently out of the window. "What reason had you to forgive me?"

"Perhaps there was none," Beryl gently replied. "When a woman loves she doesn't seek for a reason; she never thinks of it. True love is of the heart, and not of the head."

"And I believed that you had forgotten!" Martin murmured.

"So you thought of me—sometimes, then?" Beryl questioned.

"Thought of you!" Martin passionately cried, seizing both of her hands in his. "Day and night during those long terrible years you were never out of my mind. But for the thought of you I would not be here to-day."

He paused suddenly, and the woman standing by his side could feel his form tremble as if shaken by some violent emotion.

"Beryl," came at last low and tense from his lips, "is it too late? You know what I mean. Do you care enough for me to—to——"

"To take up life where we laid it down years ago? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, that's it, Beryl. Oh, can we?"

"What is there to hinder?" was the quiet response. "Why should we be separated any longer when we mean so much to each other?"

The only reply Martin made was to reach out and enfold Beryl in his arms as she sank into the chair by his side. Her face was close to his, and their lips met. At last the struggle, doubt, and uncertainty were ended. A peace such as they had not known for years came into their hearts. Their lives, like two turbulent streams long parted, were at last reunited, to flow on as one, strong and deep.

For over an hour they sat and talked about the future. Time was as nothing to them now, and they were surprised when the door opened and Nance and Dick entered. Beryl rose instantly to her feet, while a flush mantled her cheeks and brow. But Nance did not notice her agitation, so engrossed was she with her own affairs. Hurrying across the room, she threw her arms about the nurse's neck, and gave her an affectionate kiss. She then knelt by Martin's side, and looked up into his face.

"Daddy, oh, daddy!" she cried, "I am so happy!" Then words failed her, and she hid her blushing face in her hands.

Dick, who had been standing in the middle of the room, now came forward, and stood before Martin. "May I have her?" he simply asked. "Nance has promised to be my wife if you will give your consent."

For a few heart beats there was a tense silence, while Martin sat gazing off into space. He was thinking of the past, and of a little child he had rescued from the Indians on the bank of the Mackenzie River years before. Presently his eyes sought those of the young man before him.

"Do you know that Nance is not my child?" he asked in a hesitating voice. "I do not even know her parents' names."

"Yes, I know," Dick replied. "But that doesn't make any difference."

"If you had asked me for Nance a month, nay, even an hour ago," Martin continued, "I should have refused you. She was all I had in the world. But now it is different. You may have her, for I have one to take her place. I have found my Beryl. She has come back to me."

At these words Nance sprang to her feet, and looked eagerly and curiously around the room. Seeing only the nurse standing there with a happy smile upon her face, she was much puzzled, and turned to Martin for an explanation.

"Oh, daddy!" she exclaimed, "how you startled me! What did you mean by saying that Beryl had come back?"

"And so she has, dear. This is my long lost Beryl you see before you."

For an instant only Nance stood there, her eyes filled with wonder. Then they brightened, with complete understanding, and with a glad cry she sprang toward the nurse, who caught her in her arms, and showered kisses upon the fair, fresh face turned up to hers.

During the remainder of the afternoon all was excitement within that little room. There was so much to talk about that it was supper time before they were half through. While Beryl and Nance were preparing the simple repast the two men discussed plans for the future.

"You must stay right here," Dick told Martin. "We can work so much better together."

"But only as a helper," was the low reply. "Remember I am an outcast, and——"

"Hush," Dick interrupted, "don't speak of that again. Let the past be buried forever."

Scarcely had the four sat down to supper ere a knock sounded upon the door. When it was opened Tom and Old Dad entered. They were given a hearty welcome, and room was made for them at the table. Soon the whole story was told, and nothing would do the visitors but they must rise and grasp the hands of the happy couples, and wish them much joy. Tom was so excited that he could eat but little, and for once his tongue seemed tied. When the meal was ended he pushed back from the table, and ran his fingers thoughtfully through his hair.

"If I only had a smoke," he remarked, "it 'ud certainly relieve my feelin's."

"Smoke to your heart's content," Beryl laughingly replied.

"What! Here?"

"Yes. Make yourself perfectly at home."

"I guess a game of chess would relieve my feelin's," and Dad looked eagerly into Nance's face as he spoke. "D'ye feel equal fer the battle after all this excitement?"

"Why, yes," was the cheerful response. "Just as soon as these dishes are washed we shall have a game."

What an evening that was on the bank of the Quaska River in that room in the hospital. Happiness reigned supreme, for the black clouds had all disappeared. When the game was ended they talked about the visit which would be made next summer to the great world outside of which Nance had heard so much, but had never seen. Then the two newly-wedded couples would return to carry on the work in the place which was so dear to their hearts.

"An' we'll be here to give yez a house-warmin', hey, Dad?" Tom exclaimed, with joy depicted upon his honest, rugged face.

"Sure thing," was the reply. "An' mebbe ye'll git a few new wrinkles at chess," he slyly added, turning to Nance, at which they all laughed.

Then just before they parted for the night, Martin asked for his violin. Nance brought hers, too, and together they played, the first time in months. There were no sad wailing notes now, but only such music as wells freely from hearts full of love, gratitude, and happiness.

THE END

THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS

A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close.

THE RAINBOW TRAIL

The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western uplands—until at last love and faith awake.

DESERT GOLD

The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine.

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the story.

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN

This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines."

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the Mormons—Well, that's the problem of this great story.

THE SHORT STOP

The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win.

BETTY ZANE

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers.

THE LONE STAR RANGER

After killing a man in self defense Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along the Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws.

THE BORDER LEGION

Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless Western mining camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved him—she followed him out. On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots Kells, the leader—and nurses him to health again. Here enters another romance when Joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold strike, a thrilling robbery—gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly.

THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS.

By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey

The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," as told by his sister and Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his first encounter with an Indian. We see "Bill" as a pony express rider, then near Fort Sumter as Chief of the Scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is also a very interesting account of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than "Buffalo Bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous.

BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS

SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was Seventeen.

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a finished, exquisite work.

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.

Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written.

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by G. E. Chambers.

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success.

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.

A story of love and politics,—more especially a picture of a country editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love interest.

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.

The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.

THE NOVELS OF GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON

GRAUSTARK. Illustrated with Scenes from the Play.

With the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new type of story and won for himself a perpetual reading public. It is the story of love behind a throne in a new and strange country.

BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher.

This is a sequel to "Graustark." A bewitching American girl visits the little principality and there has a romantic love affair.

PRINCE OF GRAUSTARK. Illustrations by A. I. Keller.

The Prince of Graustark is none other than the son of the heroine of "Graustark." Beverly's daughter, and an American multimillionaire with a brilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the story.

BREWSTER'S MILLIONS. Illustrated with Scenes from the Photo-Play.

A young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year, in order to inherit seven, accomplishes the task in this lively story.

COWARDICE COURT. Illus. by Harrison Fisher and decorations by Theodore Hapgood.

A romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a social feud in the Adirondacks in which an English girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic young American.

THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND. Illustrated by A. I. Keller.

A story of modern New York, built around an ancient enmity, born of the scorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth.

WHAT'S-HIS-NAME. Illustrations by Harrison Fisher.

"What's-His-Name" is the husband of a beautiful and popular actress who is billboarded on Broadway under an assumed name. The very opposite manner in which these two live their lives brings a dramatic climax to the story.