Mrs. Chadron pressed her lips tight. Neither cry nor groan came out of them as she stood steadying herself by a straining grip on the gate, watching Macdonald's approach. None of them knew whether the burden that he bore was living or dead; none of them in the group at the gate but Frances knew the rider's face. One of the cowboys opened the gate wide, without a word, to let him enter. Mrs. Chadron lifted her arms appealingly, and hurried to his side as he stopped. Stiffly he leaned over, his inert burden held tenderly, and lowered what he bore into Mrs. Chadron's outstretched arms. With that change of position there was a sharp movement in the muffling blanket, two arms reached up with the quick clutching of a falling child, and clasped him about the neck. Then a sharp cry of waking recognition, and Nola was sobbing on her mother's breast. Alan Macdonald said no word. The light of the sunrise was strong on his face, set in the suffering of great weariness; the stiffness of his long and burdened ride was in his limbs. He turned his dusty horse, with its head low-drooping, and rode out the way that he had come. No hand was lifted to stop him, no voice raised in either benediction or curse. Mrs. Chadron was soothing her daughter, who was incoherent in the joy of her delivery, holding her clasped in her arms. Beyond that bright head there was no world for that mother then; save for the words which she crooned in the child's ears there was no message in her soul. Frances felt tears streaking her face in hot rivulets as she sat in her saddle, struck inactive by the great admiration, the boundless pride, that this unselfish deed woke in her. She never had, in her life of joyousness, experienced such a high sense of human admiration before. The cowboy who had opened the gate still held it so, the spell of Macdonald's dramatic arrival still over him. With his comrades he stood speechless, gazing after the departing horseman. Frances touched her horse lightly and rode after him. Mother and daughter were so estranged from all the world in that happy moment of reunion that neither saw her go, and the guards at the gate, either forgetful of their charge or softened by the moving scene, did not interpose to stop her. Macdonald raised his drooping head with quick start as she came dashing to his side. She was weeping, and she put out her hand with a motion of entreaty, her voice thick with sobs. "I wronged you and slandered you," she said, in bitter confession, "and I let you go when I should have spoken! I'm not worthy to ride along this road with you, Alan Macdonald, but I need your protection, I need your help. Will you let me go?" He checked his horse and looked across at her, a tender softening coming into his tired face.