His joy in the songs she had sung came back, intensified now by tender association with her face and voice. The knowledge that she who had voiced them so often, could voice them no more, gave to some of the words an almost overpowering pathos, and when he asked me to sing them, I could not immediately comply. To him they brought grateful tears and a consoling sadness, to me they came with tragic significance. "But that mother she is gone Calm she sleeps beneath the stone" was not a song but a reality. More and more he dwelt upon the time when she was young, and as the weeks went by his sorrow took on a wistful, vague longing for the past. Through the gate of memory he reentered the world of his youth and walked once more with William and David and Luke. The mists which filled his eyes had nothing hot or withering in their touch--they comforted him. Whether he hoped to meet his love in some other world or not I do not know--but I think he did. In the midst of these deep emotional personal experiences, I began to write (almost as if in self-defense), a novel which I called _The Gray Horse Troop_, a story which had been slowly forming in my mind ever since my visit to Lame Deer in 1897. This was my first actual start upon its composition and I was soon in full drive again, and just in proportion as I took on these fictional troubles did my own lose their power. To Zulime, with a feeling of confidence in myself, I now said, "You need not remain here any longer. Go down to Chicago and wait for me. I'll come as soon as father feels like letting me go. I am all right now. I am at work." She smiled but replied with firm decision, "I shall stay right here until you can go with me. Father needs me more than he needs you." This was true. She would have been deserting two men instead of one--and so she stayed while I worked away at my story, finding comfort in the realization of her presence. At last my father said, "You mustn't stay here on my account; I can take care of myself." Here spoke the stark spirit of the man. Accustomed to provide for himself in camp and on the trail, he saw no reason why he should not contrive to live here in the sheltered village, surrounded by his friends; but Zulime insisted upon his retaining our housekeeper, and to this he consented, although he argued against it. "I've been keeping house alone for six years out there in Dakota; I guess I can do as well here." "All right, father," I said, "we'll go, but if you need me let me know."