o the house, urging the stranger to rest a
bit and get her breath.

"Thank you, ma'am; I'd like to be movin' on. Do you know if he's
well,--the man Brice? We're his wife an' boy."

The woman told her story presently, when Mrs. Brandt had induced her to
wait there until the men came home,--told it with no unnecessary words,
and her listener made no comment.

"My brother come a week afore we was leavin', an' he helped us off an'
come as fur as Omaha. He'd done well out in Nebrasky, an' he give me
right smart o' money when he left. I was took sick on the road,--I
disremember jest where,--an' they left me at a town with a woman named
Dixon. She took care o' me. I was out o' my head a long time, an' when I
come to I told 'em to write to Brice, an' they writ, an' I reckon they
took the name of the place from the ticket. I was weak like fer a long
spell, an' they kep' a writin' an' no word come, an' then I recollected
about the town,--it was Los Angeles on the ticket,--and then I couldn't
think of the place I'd sent the letters to before, an' the thinkin'
worrited me, an' the doctor said I mustn't try. So I jest waited, an'
when I got to Los Angeles I kep' a-askin' fer a man named Brandt, till
one day somebody said, 'Brandt? Brandt? 'pears to me there's a Brandt
'way over beyond the Mission.' And then it come to me all at oncet that
the place I'd writ to was San Gabriel Mission. An' I went there an'
they showed me your house. Then a man give us a lift on his team part o'
the way, an' we walked the rest. It didn't look very fur, but they say
mountains is deceivin'. There 's somethin' kind o' grand about 'em, I
reckon; it makes everything 'pear sort o' small."

Mrs. Brandt told Joel about it that evening.

"I just took the two of 'em up to the shanty, and opened the door, and
you'd a cried to see how pleased she was with everything. And I told her
to kindle a fire and I'd fetch up a bite o' supper. And when I'd carried
it up and left it, I just come back and stood on the step till I saw
Brice comin' home. He was walkin' slow, as if his feet was a dead
weight, and when he took hold o' the door he stopped a minute, lookin'
over the valley kind o' wishful and hopeless. I guess she heard him
come, for she opened the door, and I turned around and come in. 'Barbara
Brandt,' says I, 'you've seen your see. If God wants to look at that, I
suppose He has a right to; nobody else has, that's certain.'"

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