“And the angel said, ‘Go first to Christianson.’” “Yes, yes. Of course, I—” “‘But tarry not,’ said the voice. ‘If Christianson receive not the good tidings, go take the news to another.’” He seemed now to locate the door. He made two steps in that direction, saying, “Me—I obey the voice.” “I, too, obey,” said Christianson hurriedly. “I will come Saturday.” “_Saturday!_” Björk’s burning impatience blew the end of the week to the end of the world. “I tell you _to-morrow_ will be too late! It must be to-day. It must be this hour.” “Why?” demanded the herder, but he, too, was on his feet. “Ha! You will ask questions! No wonder the angel comes to me.” Again he turned about and rushed at the door. Christianson intercepted him. Björk, with a convulsive movement, flung him off. “The voice said, ‘This is the hour you have prayed for, but if it passes in idleness, pray no more—_pray no more_!’” Björk’s voice rang out with a tragic authority. “‘For this is the hour when your feet should be shod with swiftness and your hands be full of cunning.’ It was the voice said so.” Björk’s fingers were on the latch. “Me—I obey.” He opened the door. “Come, Hjalmar,” said Christianson. [Illustration: “‘Brethren,’ he said, ‘the angel of the Lord has been with me. He has shown me great riches’”] CHAPTER XI Hildegarde’s sense of anxious responsibility had grown with every month that passed after her father sailed out of San Francisco harbor. Bound for—“the Klondike!” people exclaimed with envy, rather than asked in any doubt. “No—no,” he had said, and then hastily—to keep outsiders off the track—“well, perhaps. Who knows?” Who _didn’t_ know! And, after all, why should any man stay at home who wasn’t obliged? It was natural that no one else should take Mr. Mar’s enterprise as seriously from the start as did his daughter. For she knew how large had been her share in it. She had been the first, the only one, to cheer him on. She it was who had got “the boys” to finance the undertaking. She who had broken the fact to her mother. But for his daughter, Nathaniel Mar would not now be—where was he? How faring? Many a time Hildegarde’s heart contracted sharply, as in silence she framed the question. Her own fault that she couldn’t answer—her fault that half Valdivia could no longer set their clocks by the big, lame man’s passing—her doing that he sat no more of a morning in the warm, sunny room of the San Joaquin, sending out smoke and absorbing news. Others sat there in peace and safety, discussing their absent townsman; and Hildegarde sat at home trying to keep at bay the thought: if anything dreadful should happen to him! It had eased her a little to write to Cheviot, and beg him to look out for her father. She was tempted to say, “Bring him back safe and there’s nothing I won’t gladly do to prove—” But she had pulled herself up in time, and only promised an unending gratitude.