o hear him rave! It is awful! He
calls for me, and yet does not know me. O Jack, it makes my heart ache
so, he is so weak! He came to see me--and then went away--I didn't know
where he had gone. And all the time he was starving here. O God! It
would be too dreadful--if he should die!"

"We won't let him die!" he stoutly replied. "I'm going in to see him."

Together they went in. The doctor, intently studying his patient, sat
motionless and silent. He was a young man with a serious face, but his
movements were quick, silent, and full of decision. He looked up and
made a motion, stopping them where they were.

Out of a low mutter at last Harold's words grew distinct: "I don't
care--but the water is cold as ice--I wouldn't put a cayuse into it--let
alone Kintuck. Should be a bridge here somewhere."

"Oh, he's on the trail again!" said Mary. "Harold, don't you know me?"
She bent over to him again and put forth the utmost intensity of her
will to recall him. "I am here, Harold, don't you see me?"

His head ceased to roll and he looked at her with eyes that made her
heart grow sick--then a slow, faint smile came to his lips. "Yes--I know
you, Mary--but the river is between us, and it's swift and cold, and
Kintuck is thin and hungry--I can't cross now!"

"Doctor," said Jack, as the physician was leaving, "what are the
chances?"

The doctor's voice carried conviction: "Oh, he'll pull through--he has
one of the finest bodies I ever saw." He smiled. "He'll cross the river
all right--and land on our side."

Two days later Mr. Excell, big and brown, his brow also knotted with
anxiety, entered the room, and fell on his knees and threw his long arm
over the helpless figure beneath the coverlet. "Harry! My boy, do you
know me?"

Harold looked up at him with big staring eyes and slowly put out his
hand. "Sure thing! And I'm not dead yet, father. I'll soon be all right.
I've got Mary with me. She can cure me--if the doctor can't."

He spoke slowly, but there was will behind the voice. His wasted face
had a gentleness that was most moving to the father. He could not look
at the pitiful wreck of his once proud and fearless boy without weeping,
and being mindful of Harold's prejudice against sentiment, he left the
room to regain his composure. To Mary Mr. Excell said: "I don't know
you--but you are a noble woman. I give you a father's gratitude. Won't
you tell me who you are?"

"I am Mary Yardwell," she replied in her peculiar