have received their kindness
under false pretenses; to take their just blame of the man he personated
seemed to mitigate the deceit.

The young girl rejoined him presently with troubled eyes. Cissy was
worse, and only intermittently conscious, but had asked to see him. It
was a short flight of stairs to the bedroom, but before he reached it
Bob's heart beat faster than it had in any mountain climb. In one corner
of the plainly furnished room stood a small truckle bed, and in it lay
the invalid. It needed but a single glance at her flushed face in its
aureole of yellow hair to recognize the likeness to Jimmy, although,
added to that strange refinement produced by suffering, there was a
spiritual exaltation in the child's look--possibly from delirium--that
awed and frightened him; an awful feeling that he could not lie to this
hopeless creature took possession of him, and his step faltered. But
she lifted her small arms pathetically towards him as if she divined his
trouble, and he sank on his knees beside her. With a tiny finger curled
around his long mustache, she lay there silent. Her face was full of
trustfulness, happiness, and consciousness--but she spoke no word.

There was a pause, and Falloner, slightly lifting his head without
disturbing that faintly clasping finger, beckoned Miss Boutelle to his
side. "Can you drive?" he said, in a low voice.

"Yes."

"Take my sleigh and get the best doctor in town to come here at once.
Bring him with you if you can; if he can't come at once, drive home
yourself. I will stay here."

"But"--hesitated Miss Boutelle.

"I will stay here," he repeated.

The door closed on the young girl, and Falloner, still bending over the
child, presently heard the sleigh-bells pass away in the storm. He still
sat with his bent head, held by the tiny clasp of those thin fingers.
But the child's eyes were fixed so intently upon him that Mrs. Ricketts
leaned over the strangely-assorted pair and said--

"It's your brother Dick, dearie. Don't you know him?"

The child's lips moved faintly. "Dick's dead," she whispered.

"She's wandering," said Mrs. Ricketts. "Speak to her." But Bob, with
his eyes on the child's, lifted a protesting hand. The little sufferer's
lips moved again. "It isn't Dick--it's the angel God sent to tell me."

She spoke no more. And when Miss Boutelle returned with the doctor she
was beyond the reach of finite voices. Falloner would have remained all
night with them,