Through the silent watches of the awful night that followed, John Ranger pondered, planned, and waited. His three daughters and three younger children, Sally O’Dowd and her three babies, and Susannah and George Washington, all occupied the family wagon, around which he stalked through the silent hours as one in a dream. “A formidable array of dependent ones,” he said to himself over and over again. “And what is to become of my Annie’s darlings? Was it for this that she started with me on this terrible journey?” There was no audible answer to his anxious queries save the roaring of the river as it crashed its way between the rocks that formed its grim and tortuous channel. Weary at last of walking, he crept into his tent beside Hal, who had been dead to the world from the moment he touched his bed, so sweet is the deep forgetfulness of childhood when “tired Nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep,” is preparing it for the further endurance of an exacting and ambitious life. But Captain Ranger could not sleep. He arose and faced again the silent horrors of the situation. The stars twinkled overhead in their usual triumph over disturbing forces; and, slowly fading into the coming twilight, rode the gibbous moon. In his helplessness the lonely watcher lifted up his voice and prayed. “I’ve never felt much worry over original sin, O Lord!” he cried, standing with hands uplifted in the chilly air, “but you know I’ve generally been honest. I’ve tried hard to do my duty according to my lights. I didn’t mean to bring my Annie and her babies out here in the wilderness to die; but you understood the conditions, and because you understood, you took my wife away. I rebelled at first, but you helped me to bear it for her sake; and for this, for the first time, I thank you. And now, if you have the love for her children for which she always gave you credit, I am sure that you’ll guide me safely out of this present trouble. And if you do, O Lord, I’ll serve you as long as I live in whatever way you lead. Amen.” “I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread!” “Who spoke to me?” he asked, aloud. “Where did that voice come from? I could have sworn it was Annie! No; Annie is dead!” In a flurry of excitement he peered in all directions, listening eagerly. But in his soul there slowly crept a quiet peace, and with it a sense of security and elation which he could not comprehend; neither could he doubt its reality.