breakfast of bad coffee and yellow
biscuits, Mrs. Stickney came back.

"She's awake an' wants to see yeh. Now don't get excited. She ain't
dangerous."

Anson was alarmed and puzzled at her manner. Her smile mystified him.

"What is the matter?" he demanded.

Her reply was common enough, but it stopped him with his foot on the
threshold. He understood at last. The majesty and mystery of birth was
like a light in his face, and dazzled him. He was awed and exalted at
the same time.

"Open the door; I want to see her," he said in a new tone.

As they entered the darkened chamber he heard his girl's eager cry.

"Is that you, pap?" wailed her faint, sweet voice.

"Yes: it's me, Flaxie." He crossed the room and knelt by the bed. She
flung her arms round his neck.

"O pappy! pappy! I wanted you. Oh, my poor mamma! O pap, I don't like
her," she whispered, indicating the nurse with her eyes. "O pap, I hate
to think of mother lying there in the snow--an' Bert--where is Bert,
pap? Perhaps he's in the blizzard too----"

"She's a little flighty," said the nurse in her matter-of-fact tone.

Anson groaned as he patted the pale cheek of the sufferer.

"Don't worry, Flaxie; Bert's all right. He'll come home soon. Why don't
you send for the doctor?" he said to the nurse.

"He'll be here soon. Don't worry over that," indicating Flaxen, who was
whispering to herself. "They of'n do that."

"Do you s'pose I can find my folks if I go back to Norway?" she said to
Anson a little after.

"Yes: I guess so, little one. When you get well, we'll try an' see."

"Perhaps if I found my aunt she'd look like mamma, an' I'd know then
how mamma looked, wouldn't I? Perhaps if the wheat is good this year we
can go back an' find her, can't we?" Then her words melted into a moan
of physical pain, and the nurse said:

"Now I guess you'd better go an' see if you can't hurry the doctor up.
Yes: now he's got to go," she went on to Flaxen, drowning out her voice
and putting her imploring hands back upon the bed.

Anson saw it all now. In her fear and pain she had turned to him--poor,
motherless little bird--forgetting her boy-husband or feeling the need
of a broader breast and stronger hand. It was a beautiful trust, and as
the great, shaggy man went out into the morning he was exalted by the
thought. "My little babe--my Flaxen!" he said with unutterable love and
pity.

Again his mind ran over the line of his life--the cabin, the dead
woman,