As these things developed in her mind another feeling arose in her heart: a feeling of pride in the man trudging on ahead of her--pride in his pluck, in his patience, in his cheeriness, and last, in his bodily strength, for to her great surprise her husband proved to be stronger than Blakeman and the match of Holcomb. She had not believed this possible. At dawn she fell asleep, awaking with a violent headache. She felt as if she had been beaten; every bone in her body ached; her cheeks were burning; her hands were like ice. She shuddered now in a chill, yet she crawled deeper into her blanket and called no one. All through the cold of the early dawn she suffered intensely--shivering with cold and burning with fever, by turns. She dare not move lest she might wake Margaret or Sam. Toward morning her legs grew warm; the old dog had lain across them. Then she fell into a troubled sleep. When she regained consciousness two days had elapsed. She saw dimly that the rest were at breakfast. It was raining. The old dog again lay across her feet; he was hungry, but he had not moved through the night. She tried to sit up, but the trees danced in front of her. Margaret and Thayor started toward her. "You've slept so well, mother," she could hear Margaret saying; "you feel better, don't you?" Thayor was on his knees beside her--he put his arm under her shoulders and placed a tin cup to her lips. "Come, dear--drink this"--she heard his voice faintly. Her lips moved spasmodically. "It's broth," he said softly. "Billy killed a deer this morning at daylight." She stared up at him with a pair of vacant, feverish eyes. "Mrs. Van Renssalaer cannot come--send these people away, Sam--I want them sent away--at once--at once--Blakeman." The spasmodic movement of her jaw continued, but her words ceased to be audible. "Drink a little, dear," Sam pleaded. "It will do you good." The lips smiled feebly, pressing wearily against the rusty edge of the tin cup; then she sank back in his arms in a dead faint. * * * * * By the second morning her splendid physique came to the rescue. Weakened as she was by fever, she would, she insisted, take her place with the others when they were ready to start. To this Thayor assented, as they were now nearing their last resting place, the railroad lying but half a day's tramp beyond where they were camped. As the thought of her freedom rose in her mind a strange feeling came over her. "Won't somebody sing?" she asked. "It's been so dreary for so many wretched long miles. Maybe I can." They were grouped about the smouldering fire at the time, Margaret's head in her lap, Holcomb, the old trapper and the others in a half circle. Thayor looked at his wife with mingled pride and astonishment: pride in her pluck and her desire to lighten the hearts of those about her--astonishment--amazement really, in the change that had come over her.