oked at the door, "I'll see what's what, I reckon."

He went up to the fence, leaned over, but his heart failed him.

Then he resorted to the phial of wrath, again looked at the sun, and as
he replaced it in his boot felt bold as a lion. The man was drunk. He
climbed the fence, staggered up to the door, lifted the latch and pushed
it open.

Bunker Hill came softly out of the bed-room, pushed the man back gently
as if he had been a child, shut the door slowly, and the man went back
to his post.

Men have curiosity as well as women. Weak women over weaker tea,
discussing strong scandal in some little would-be-fashionable shoddy
saloon in Paris, are not more curious than were these half-wild men here
in the woods. The difference however is, this was an honest sympathetic
interest. It was all these men had outside of hard work to interest
them. They wanted to know what was the matter in their little temple on
the hill. The camp was getting wild.

Limber Tim tried to screw himself up against the fence for some time,
and failing in this, turned his attention again to the phial of wrath.
He was leaning over, trying to get it out of his boot leg, when the door
opened and Bunker Hill stepped out carefully, but supple and straight as
he had ever seen her.

Limber Tim was quite overcome. He looked up the canon and then down the
canon.

"They'll be a comet next." He shook his head hopelessly at this remark
of his, and again bent down and wrestled with the boot leg and bottle.

"Bully for Bunker Hill. Guess she's not hurt much after all."

The men went out of the Howling Wilderness as the man who shot this
injunction or observation in at the door went in, and to their amazement
saw the woman alluded to walk rapidly on past the saloon. She did not
look up, she did not turn right or left or stop at the saloon or speak
to any one; she went straight to her own cabin. Then the men knew for a
certainty that it was the little Widow who was ill, and they knew that
it was this woman who was nursing her, and they almost worshiped the
ground that the good Samaritan walked upon.

Soon Bunker Hill came out again, and again took the trail for the
Widow's cabin, and walking all the time rapidly as before. The men as
she passed took off their hats and stood there in silence.

There was a smile of satisfaction on her plain face as she climbed the
hill. She went up that hill as if she had been borne on wings. Her heart
had never been so