f in water--quick!" and he
thrust the branch into her hand.

Beside the bed, on his great, rough knees, he fairly fell, crooning
incoherently, and by a mighty effort keeping his stiff, cold hands from
the tiny form.

Miss Doc had kept a plate of biscuit warm in the stove. One of these
and a piece of meat she gave to the man, bidding him eat it for the
warmth his body required.

"Fix the shrub in the water," he begged.

"It's nearly ready now," she answered. "Take a bite to eat."

Then, presently, she came again to his side. "I've got the stuff," she
said, awed by the look of anguish on the miner's face, and into his
hands she placed a steaming pitcher, a cup, and a spoon, after which
she threw across his shoulders a warm, thick blanket, dry and
comforting.

Already the shrub had formed a dark, pungent liquor of the water poured
upon it. Turning out a cupful in his haste, old Jim flowed the
scalding stuff across his hands. It burned, but he felt no pain. The
spoonful that he dipped from the cup he placed to his own cold lips, to
test. He blew upon it as a mother might, and tried it again.

Then tenderly he fed the tea through the dry little lips. Dully the
tiny man's unseeing eyes were fixed on his face.

"Take it, for old Bruvver Jim," the man gently coaxed, and spoonful
after spoonful, touched every time to his own mouth first, to try its
heat, he urged upon the little patient.

Then Miss Doc did a singular thing. She put on a shawl and, abruptly
leaving the house, ran with all her might down the street, through the
snow, to Bone's saloon. For the very first time in her life she
entered this detested place, a blazing light of joy in her eyes. Six
of the men, about to join the four already gone to the hill above,
where Jim had found the gold, were about to leave for the claim.

"He's come!" cried Miss Doc. "He's home--and got the weed! I thought
you boys would like to know!"

Then backing out, with a singular smile upon her face, she hastened to
return to her home with all the speed the snow would permit.

Alone in the house with the silent little pilgrim, who seemed beyond
all human aid, the gray old miner knew not what he should do. The
shrub tea was failing, it seemed to him. The sight of the drooping
child was too much to be borne. The man threw back his head as he
knelt there on the floor, and his stiffened arms were appealingly
uplifted in prayer.

"God Almighty," he said, in his b