back and stood by the fire, and the awful
thought came fully and with all its force upon him that she was insane.

Ah! that was what it was. She feared she would go mad. Mad! mad! He
thought of all the mad people he had ever seen or heard of; thought how
he had been told that it runs in families; how people go mad and murder
their friends, destroy themselves, go into the woods and are eaten by
wild beasts, lost in the snow, or drowned in the waters hurrying by wood
and mountain wall, and then he feared that he should go mad himself.

"Poor little soul!" he kept saying over to himself. "Poor, noble little
soul! would not marry me because she knew she would go mad." And she was
dearer to the man now than ever before.

"Sandy."

The sufferer barely breathed his name, but he leaned above her while yet
she spoke.

"Sandy, bring Billy Piper."

"What?" He threw up his two hands in the air. The woman did not seem to
heed him, but, resting and lying quite still a moment, said, softly--

"Bring Bunker Hill."

"Bring what? who?"

"Go, bring Bunker Hill."

If his wife had said, "Bring Satan," or had repeated her "Bring Billy
Piper," the man could not have been more surprised or displeased.

Now this Bunker Hill, or Bunkerhill, was a poor woman of the town--the
best one there, it is true, but bad enough, no doubt, at the best. She
was called Bunker Hill by the boys, and no one knew her by any other
name, because she was a sort of a hunch-back.

"Did you say, my pretty, did you say--"

"Sandy, bring Bunker Hill. And bring her soon. Soon, Sandy, soon; soon,
for the love of God."

The woman was writhing with pain again as the man shot through the door,
and looked back over his shoulder to be sure that she did not attempt to
leave the house or destroy herself the moment his back was turned.

Limber Tim was there waiting silently and patiently. He scratched his
head, and wondered, and raised his brim as he ran, and slid, and
shuffled with all his speed down the trail toward the town to bring the
woman. Men stood by in respectful silence as he passed. They would have
given worlds almost to know how the one fair woman fared, but they did
not ask the question, did not stop the man a moment. A moment might be
precious. It might be worth a life.

There are some rules of etiquette, some principles of feeling in the
wild woods among the wild men there, that might be transplanted with
advantage to a better society. There mig