am here,
might as well be useful."

"Indeed, Doctor, you did right to come. You will be such a help to
father. You will help us both, just as you have always done. Will
you excuse us, father, while Dr. Coughlan looks at this thing here
in my side?"

The physician arranged the light so that it shone full upon the
man on the bed, then carefully removed the bandages from an ugly
wound in the artist's side. Dr. Coughlan looked very grave. "When
did this happen, Howard?"

"I--I can't tell exactly. You see I thought at first I could get
along with Pete to help, and I did, for a week, I guess. Then
things--didn't go so well. Some fever, I think, for she--she
came." He turned his eyes toward the picture again. "And I--I lost
all track of time. It was the night of the eighteenth. Father will
know."

"Two weeks," muttered the physician.

A low exclamation came from the shepherd. "It was you--you who
brought the horses to the ranch that night?"

The artist smiled grimly. "The officers saw me, and thought that I
was one of the men they wanted. It's alright, though." The old
scholar instinctively lifted his hands and looked at them. He
remembered the saddle, wet with blood.

Making a careful examination, the doctor asked more questions.
When he had finished and had skilfully replaced the bandages, the
wounded man asked, "What about it, Dr. Coughlan?" The kind hearted
physician jerked out a volley of scientific words and phrases that
meant nothing, and busied himself with his medicine case.

When his patient had taken the medicine, the doctor watched him
for a few minutes, and then asked, "Feel stronger, Howard?"

The artist nodded. "Tell me the truth, now, Doctor. I know that I
am going. But how long have I? Wait a minute first. Where's Pete?
Come here, my boy." The lad drew near. "Father." Mr. Howitt seated
himself on the bedside. "You'll be strong, father? We are ready
now, Dr. Coughlan."

"Yes, tell us, David," said the shepherd, and his voice was
steady.

The physician spoke, "Matter of hours, I would say. Twenty-four,
perhaps; not more; not more."

"There is no possible chance, David?" asked the shepherd.

Again the little doctor took refuge behind a broadside of
scientific terms before replying, "No; no possible chance."

A groan slipped from the gray bearded lips of the father. The
artist turned to the picture and smiled. Pete looked wonderingly
from face to face.

"Poor father," said the artist. "One