She started up, and being nearer the box than he, thrust her hand under and tried to pull it out. It was heavy with the sacks of dust and required a wrench. She rose from the effort, gave a gasp, and, reeling, fell against him. He caught her in his arms, and as her head fell back against his shoulder saw that she was death-white and unconscious. With terrified care he laid her on Fletcher’s bunk, and, seizing a pan of water, sprinkled her face and hands, then tore one of the tin cups off its nail, and, pouring whisky into it, tried to force it between her lips. A little entered her mouth, though most of it ran down her chin. As he stood staring at her, Fletcher appeared in the doorway. “Hullo!” he said; “what’s the matter with her? By gum, but she looks bad!” And then, with a quick and practised hand, he pulled her up to a sitting posture, and, prying her mouth open with a fork, poured some of the whisky down. It revived her quickly. She sat up, felt for her sunbonnet, and then said: “I hadn’t oughter have done that, but it came so quick.” She tried to get up, but Moreau pushed her back. “Oh, I ain’t sick,” she said, trying to speak bravely; “I’ve been took like that before. It’s just tiredness. I’m all right now.” She again tried to rise, stood on her feet for a moment, then reeled back on the bunk, with white lips. “It’s such a weakness,” she whispered; “such a weakness!” At this moment the baby woke up, and, lifting up its voice, began a loud, violent wail. The woman looked in terror from one man to the other. “Oh, my poor baby!” she cried; “what’ll I do? Is that one goin’ to go, too?” “The baby’s all right,” said Moreau. “Don’t begin to worry about that. All babies cry, don’t they?” “Oh, my poor baby!” she wailed, unheeding, and suddenly beginning to wring her hands. “It’ll die like Willie. It’ll die, too.” “Why should it die? What’s the matter with it? It was all right this morning, wasn’t it?” he answered, feeling that there were mysteries here he did not grasp. “It’ll die because it don’t get nothing to eat,” she cried desperately. “I’ve nothing for it. I’m too sick! I’m too sick! And it’ll starve. Oh, my poor baby!” She burst into the wild, weak tears of exhaustion, her sobs mingling with the now strident yells of the hungry baby. The two men looked at each other, sheepishly, beginning to understand the situation. The enfeebled condition of the mother made it impossible for her to nourish the child. It was a predicament for which even the resourceful mind of Fletcher had no remedy. He pushed back his cap, and, scratching slowly at the front of his head, looked at his mate with solemn perplexity, while the cabin echoed to sounds of misery unlike any that had ever before resounded within its peaceful walls. “Can--can--we get anything?” said Moreau at length--“any--any--sort of food, meat, eggs--er--er any sort of stuff for it to eat?” “Eat?” exclaimed Fletcher scornfully; “how can it eat? It hasn’t a tooth.”