self a larger and
larger place in his thought and in his life. He well knew how she had
toiled and denied herself comforts and endured hardships that he might
gain that height of every Scottish mother's ambition for her son, a
college education, and he gave her full reward in the love of his heart
and the thoughtful devotion of his life. All his interests and
occupations, his studies, his mission work in the Ward, his triumphs on
the football field, all he shared with her, and until the last year no
one had ever challenged her place of supremacy in his heart. His future
was built about his mother. She was to share his work, her home was to
be in his manse, she was to be the centre about which his life would
swing; and since coming to the West he had built up in imagination a
new life structure, in which his mother had her own ancient place. In
this new and fascinating work of exploring, organising, and upbuilding
he felt sure, too, of his mother's eager sympathy and her wise
understanding.

It had been the happiest of all his fancies that his mother should
preside over the new home, the opening of which had been attended with
such pride and joy. She would be there to live with him every day,
watching him go out and waiting for him to come in.

Now all that was gone. As his mind ran along its accustomed grooves
every turn of thought smote him with a pang sharp and sudden. She was
no longer a part of the plan. All had to be taken down, the parts
readjusted, the structure rebuilt. He began to understand the
Convener's words, "This is a hard country." It demanded a man's life in
all the full, deep meaning of the word; his work, of course of body and
brain, but his heart as well, and his heart's treasures.

In the midst of his depression and bewilderment Ike brought him a
letter which had lain two weeks at the Fort, and whose date was now
some four weeks old. It was from Brown and ran thus:

My Dear Old Chap:

I do not know how to begin this letter. The terribly sudden and awful
calamity that has overtaken us has paralysed my mind, and I can hardly
think straight. One thing that stands out before me, wiping out almost
every other thought, is that our dear Betty is no more. You cannot
imagine it, I know, for though I saw her in her coffin, so sweet and
lovely, but oh! so still, I cannot get myself to believe it. The
circumstances concerning her death, too, were awfully sad, so sad that
it simply goes beyond any words I