teen years of her life, since the night when her
mother had laid her in her father's arms and died, Ruth Lansing had
hardly ever been beyond the reach of her father's voice. They had
grown very close together, these two. They had little need of clumsy
words between them.

As the girl dropped to her knees, her eyes, wild, eager, rebellious,
seared her father with their terror-stricken, unbelieving question.

But she quickly saw the stab of pain that her wild questioning had
given him. She crushed back a great, choking sob, and fought bravely
with herself until she was able to force into her eyes a look of
understanding and great mothering tenderness.

Her father saw the struggle and the look, and blessed her for it with
his eyes. Then he said:

"You'll never blame me, Ruth, girl, will you? I know I'm desertin'
you, little comrade, right in the mornin' of your battle with life.
But you won't be afraid. I know you won't."

The girl shook her head bravely, but it was clear that she dared not
trust herself to speak.

"I'm goin' to ask this man here to look to you. He came here for a
sign to me. I see it. I see it plain. I will trust him with your life.
And so will you, little comrade. I--I'm droppin' out. He'll take you
on.

"He saved my life once. So he gave you your life. It's a sign, my
Ruth."

The girl slipped her hands gently under his head and looked deep and
long into the glazing eyes.

Her heart quailed, for she knew that she was facing death--and life
alone.

Obedient to her father's look, she rose and walked across the room.
She saw that he had something to say to this strange man and that the
time was short.

In the doorway of the inner room of the cabin she stood, and throwing
one arm up against the frame of the door she buried her face in it.
She did not cry or sob. Later, there would be plenty of time for
that.

The Bishop, reading swiftly, saw that in an instant an irrevocable
change had come over her. She had knelt a frightened, wondering,
protesting child. A woman, grown, with knowledge of death and its
infinite certainty, of life and its infinite chance, had risen from
her knees.

As the Bishop leaned over him, Lansing spoke hurriedly:

"I never knew your name, Chaplain; or if I did I forgot it, and it
don't matter.

"I'm dying. I don't need any doctor to tell me. I'll be gone before he
gets here.

"You remember that day at Fort Fisher, when Curtis' men were cut to
pieces in the sec