Lest it be repeated more loudly, and disturb the quiet into which the room had finally settled, Donald forestalled the nurse's act, hurried softly to the door, and opened it a few inches. He started. There, leaning dejectedly against one of the pronged cedar posts on the tiny stoop, was a spectre figure, ghastly of countenance--Judd's. The doctor read in it the awful anguish of uncertainty which had driven the mountaineer, against his will, back to the cabin which held for him either hope or blank despair--and the man he hated. Donald slipped outside, and closed the door softly behind him. He touched the inert form on the shoulder, and said in an undertone, "Come with me away from the house, Judd." The other followed him, with dragging feet and sagging shoulders, his obedience being like that of a whipped dog. As he reached the rock before the gnarled oak, which, in happier days, had been the target for Big Jerry's first practice shot with the rifle that was later to play a part in the tragedy of Mike's death, Donald stopped and faced the man who had sworn himself his mortal enemy. The sight of the rock had re-awakened bitter memories; but they perished still-born as his gaze turned on the dimly seen figure beside him. "Judd," he began, almost kindly, "you know why I came here this time?" The other made an indistinct sound of assent. "I ... I operated on your little sister's brain, to-night. Wait. It was absolutely necessary, if she were to have even a single chance for life. She was dying, Judd. The operation was a desperate one--a last resort. I can't promise you anything certainly, but she's still alive, and I honestly believe that she is going to live--and get well." For an instant the listener stood motionless. Then his pent-up emotions broke their bounds in one deep, shuddering breath, and he sank down beside the boulder, flung his tensed arms across it, and buried his face on them. At last he spoke, hoarsely, and without raising his head. "I done my damnedest ter kill ye, an' now yo' ... yo' saves Lou's life fer me. I reckon I don't know how ter thank ye, er repay ... but ... my life air yourn ter take hit, ef yo' likes." "Nonsense," was the sharp response. "And as for thanks, why I don't want any. I did it for Smiles' sake." The kneeling body quivered once; but, when the answer came, it was uttered in even tones. "Yes, I reckoned so. Yo' hev the right ter do things fer her, an' I ... I haint. She ... she warnt fer me ... never. I warnt never worthy uv her." "She isn't for me, either," said Donald. "And besides, I'm no more worthy of her than you, Judd. I should have told you long ago--I was a fool not to have done so--I'm going to marry another girl,--a girl at home whom I have known all my life." "Do Rose know hit?" came the mountaineer's quick, suspicious query.