ake,
leaving her, because she so desired it, alone but for her aged
mother, bereft of all, husband, brothers, father, who might guard
her from the world's harm.

"I am safe, dear Jack," she said, "God will let nothing harm me."

And Jack, smiling bravely still, went on his way and for a whole
year lived for the monthly letter that advancing civilization had
come to make possible to him.

The last letter of the year brought him the word that she was
alone. That night Jack French packed his buckboard with grub for
his six-hundred-mile journey, and at the end of the third week,
for the trail was heavy on the Portage Plains, he drove his
limping broncho up the muddy Main Street of Winnipeg.

When the barber had finished with him, he set forth to find his
brother's wife, who, seeing him, turned deadly pale and stood
looking sadly at him, her hand pressed hard upon her heart.

"Oh, Jack!" she said at length, with a great pity in her
voice,--"poor Jack! why did you come?"

"To make you a home with me," said Jack, looking at her with eyes
full of longing, "and wherever you choose, here or yonder at the
Night Hawk Ranch, which is much better,"--at which her tears began
to flow.

"Poor Jack! Dear Jack!" she cried, "why did you come?"

"You know why," he said. "Can you not learn to love me?"

"Love you, Jack? I could not love you more."

"Can you not come to me?"

"Dear Jack! Poor Jack!" she said again, and fell to sobbing bitterly
till he forgot his own grief in hers. "I love my husband still."

"And I too," said Jack, looking pitifully at her.

"And I must keep my heart for him till I see him again." Her voice
sank to a whisper, but she stood bravely looking into his eyes, her
two hands holding down her fluttering heart as if in fear that it
might escape.

"And is that the last word?" said Jack wearily.

"Yes, Jack, my brother, my dear, dear brother," she said,
"it is the last. And oh, Jack, I have had much sorrow, but none
more bitter than this!" And sobbing uncontrollably, she laid
herself on his breast.

He held her to him, stroking her beautiful hair, his brown hand
trembling and his strong face twisting strangely.

"Don't cry, dear Margaret. Don't cry like that. I won't make you weep.
Never mind. You could not help it. And--I'll--get--over it--somehow.
Only don't cry."

Then when she grew quiet again he kissed her and went out, smiling
back at her as he went, and for fifteen years never saw her face