e our best, but I'm afraid it's not good enough."

"He's in bed, I suppose," said MacRae. "Well, I'll go in and see him.
Maybe it'll cheer the old boy up to see me back."

"He won't know you," the girl murmured. "You mustn't disturb him just
now, anyway. He has fallen into a doze. When he comes out of that he'll
likely be delirious."

"Good Lord," MacRae whispered, "as bad as that! What is it?"

"The flu," Dolly said quietly. "Everybody has been having it. Old Bill
Munro died in his shack a week ago."

"Has dad had a doctor?"

The girl nodded.

"Harper from Nanaimo came day before yesterday. He left medicine and
directions; he can't come again. He has more cases than he can handle
over there."

They went through the front door into a big, rudely furnished room with
a very old and worn rug on the floor, a few pieces of heavy furniture,
and bare, uncurtained windows. A heap of wood blazed in an open
cobblestone fireplace.

MacRae stopped short just within the threshold. Through a door slightly
ajar came the sound of stertorous breathing, intermittent in its volume,
now barely audible, again rising to a labored harshness. He listened, a
look of dismayed concern gathering on his face. He had heard men in the
last stages of exhaustion from wounds and disease breathe in that
horribly distressed fashion.

He stood a while uncertainly. Then he laid off his mackinaw, walked
softly to the bedroom door, looked in. After a minute of silent watching
he drew back. The girl had seated herself in a chair. MacRae sat down
facing her.

"I never saw dad so thin and old-looking," he muttered. "Why, his hair
is nearly white. He's a wreck. How long has he been sick?"

"Four days," Dolly answered. "But he hasn't grown old and thin in four
days, Jack. He's been going downhill for months. Too much work. Too much
worry also, I think--out there around the Rock every morning at
daylight, every evening till dark. It hasn't been a good season for the
rowboats."

MacRae stirred uneasily in his chair. He didn't understand why his
father should have to drudge in a trolling boat. They had always fished
salmon, so far back as he could recall, but never of stark necessity. He
nursed his chin in his hand and thought. Mostly he thought with a
constricted feeling in his throat of how frail and old his father had
grown, the slow-smiling, slow-speaking man who had been father and
mother and chum to him since he was an urchin in knee breeches.