“Two days!” The chief’s promise he knew would be kept. In two days his father, whose mysterious absence had wrought such havoc in the life of home, would be back again, and then the old serene and happy life would be restored. In two days that dreadful fear which had been clutching at his heart all yesterday and this morning and which the memory of his mother’s face even now brought back to him would be gone. Two days! He let his pony out to his full speed, eager to bring the great news to his mother. * * * * * Two days later the chief appeared at the bungalow, supporting a stumbling, ragged, half-starved man who fell sprawling at the steps and lay there waiting for strength to make the ascent. The chief passed quickly into the living room and finding no one went on into the kitchen. There he found old Jinny, rocking in her arms a haggard, grief-distracted boy who sobbed in his sleep. The old nurse, catching sight of the chief, held up her hand for silence. “Man come! Drink!” muttered the Indian, picking up a cup from the table and going through the motion of drinking. Old Jinny, nodding comprehension, rose with the boy in her arms, carried him to a sofa and laying him gently down turned to the Indian with her finger on her lips, then passing into the living room procured a glass of liquor and gave it to the Indian. “Come,” he ordered, and she followed promptly and without a word. Together they lifted the exhausted Gaspard, gave him the drink, and waited till his strength should come back. “The Lord help the man, he maun dree his weird! It’s a sair warl for him.” Then, turning to the chief who stood as if cut from stone, she said: “Gae awa’, you, tae Colonel Pelham,” she commanded him, “tae the big white hoose doon the way yonder, and tell him the woman’s deid.” But her speech was beyond the Indian till, baffled, she beckoned him into the house. “Come,” she said, and took him into the room where the dead woman lay. At once the chief understood. Down the driveway she went with him and pointed the way to the “big white house” of Colonel Pelham. Without a word he was off on his errand, on the long swinging trot of the Indian, while the old nurse returned to the man who still lay upon the steps, too spent to move. She bent over him, shook him awake, and said, “Come, man, get ye in till y’re bed. Ye’re no fit for onything.” He turned dull eyes upon the house. “Jinny,” he mumbled, “my—your—Marion—she is better?” “Aye, she’s better,” said the old nurse calmly. “She’s beyond all ill.” Jinny was entirely preoccupied with grief over the death of the woman she had nursed as a babe and whose babes she had nursed as well. The man staggered to his feet and held by the verandah post, struggling for breath. “Jinny,” he gasped. “No—no—you don’t—mean—she’s——” He could get no further.