The doctor administered medicine to reduce the fever, dressed the wounded arm, with Gordon’s ready assistance, and then called in Mother White to prepare the bed for his patient; but he paused nonplussed before the weight of entreaty in Mary’s eyes and voice. “Please don’t,” she cried out, in actual terror. “Oh, Mr. Gordon, don’t let him! I see such awful things when I lie down. Please! Please! And Mr. Langford said I might sit up till he came. Mr. Gordon, you will not let him put me to bed, will you?” “I think it will be better to let her have her way, Lockhart,” said Gordon, in a low voice. “Mebbe it would, Dick,” said the doctor, with surprising meekness. “I’ll stay all night and I’ll take good care of her, Lockhart. There’s Mother White beckoning to supper. You’ll eat before you go? No, I won’t take any supper now, thank you, mother, I will stay with Mary.” And he did stay with her all through the long watches of that long night. He never closed his eyes in sleep. Sometimes, Mary would drop off into uneasy slumber—always of short duration. When she awakened suddenly in wide-eyed fright, he soothed her with all tenderness. Sometimes when he thought she was sleeping, she would clutch his arm desperately and cry out that there was some one behind the big cottonwood. Again it would be to ask him in a terrified whisper if he did not hear hoof-beats, galloping, galloping, galloping, and begged him to listen. He could always quiet her, and she tried hard to keep from wandering; but after a short, broken rest, she would cry out again in endless repetition of the terrors of that awful night. Mrs. White and several of her small progeny breathed loudly from an adjoining room. A lamp burned dimly on the table. It grew late—twelve o’clock and after. At last she rested. She passed from light, broken slumber to deep sleep without crying out and thus awakening herself. Gordon was tired and sad. Now that the flush of fever was gone, he saw how white and miserable she really looked. The circles under her eyes were so dark they were like bruises. The mantle of his misfortune was spreading to bring others besides himself into its sombre folds. The men were coming back. But they were coming quietly, in grim silence. He dared not awaken Mary for the news he knew they must carry. He stepped noiselessly to the door to warn them to a yet greater stillness, and met Langford on the threshold. The two surveyed each other gravely with clasped hands. “You tell her, Dick. I—I can’t,” said Langford. His big shoulders drooped as under a heavy burden. “Must I?” asked Gordon. “Dick, I—I can’t,” said Langford, brokenly. “Don’t you see?—if I had been just a minute sooner—and I promised.” “Yes, I see, Paul,” said Gordon, quietly. “I will tell her.”