And they took me
to him--private room. And a nice-looking nurse. And flowers. He has lots
of friends in New York--Hilliard, you bet you--" It was irony again and
Sheila stirred nervously. That changed his tone. He moved abruptly and
came and sat down near her, locking his hands and bending his head to
study them in the old way. "He found out who I was and he told me about
you, Sheila, and, because he was too much hurt to travel or even to
write, he asked me to go out and carry a message for him. Nothing would
have kept me from going, anyway," Dickie added quaintly. "When I learned
what had been happening and how you were left and no letters coming from
Rusty to answer his--well, sir, I could hardly sit still to hear about
all that, Sheila. But, anyway--" Dickie moved his hands. They sought the
arms of his chair and the fingers tightened. He looked past Sheila. "He
told me then how it was with you and him. That you were planning to be
married. And I promised to find you and tell you what he said."

"What did he say?"

Dickie spoke carefully, using his strange gift. With every word his
face grew a trifle whiter, but that had no effect upon his eloquence.
He painted a vivid and touching picture of the shattered and wistful
youth. He repeated the shaken words of remorse and love. "I want her to
come East and marry me. I love her. Tell her I love her. Tell her I can
give her everything she wants in all the world. Tell her to come--" And
far more skillfully than ever Hilliard himself could have done, Dickie
pleaded the intoxication of that sudden shower of gold, the
bewildering change in the young waif's life, the necessity he was under
to go and see and touch the miracle. There was a long silence after
Dickie had delivered himself of the burden of his promise. The fire
leapt and crackled on Hilliard's forsaken hearth. It threw shadows and
gleams across Dickie's thin, exhausted face and Sheila's inscrutably
thoughtful one.

She held out her hand.

"Give me the letters now, Dickie."

He handed her the bundle that had accumulated in Rusty and the little
withered one taken from the body of the trapper. Sheila took them and
held them on her knee. She pressed both her hands against her eyes; then,
leaning toward the fire, she read the letters, beginning with that one
that had spent so many months under the dumb snow.

Berg, who had investigated Dickie, leaned against her knee while she
read, his eyes fixed upon her. She re