rney opened his eyes and turned
his face toward the window, moving his lips in a whisper.

Bending over him his brother caught the words, "Night no more." The
great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look upon the
mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest
upon his brother's face. "It is near now, Dick--I think--and it's not
hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there--under the pines--but I think
mother--would like--to have me near."

"Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother." Dick's voice was
steady and clear.

"Margaret," said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see her. An
odd little smile played over his face. "I wasn't worth it, Margaret--but
I thank you--I like to think of it now--I would like you--to kiss me."
She kissed him on the lips once, twice, for a single moment her superb
courage faltering as she whispered in his ear, "Barney, my love! my
love!"

Again he smiled up at her. "Margaret," he said, "take care--of Dick--for
me."

"Yes, Barney, I will." The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet voice
carried full conviction to his mind.

"I know you will," he said with a sigh of content. For a long time he
lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. Suddenly
he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. "Dick, my boy,"
he cried, in a clear, strong voice, "my brother--my brother." He lifted
up both his arms and wound them round Dick's neck, drew a deep breath,
then another. They waited anxiously. Then one more. Again they waited,
tense and breathless, but the eternal silence had fallen.

"He's gone, Margaret!" cried Dick, in a voice of piteous surprise,
lifting up a white appealing face to her. "He's gone! Oh! he has left
us!"

She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. "We have only each
other now, Dick," she said, and took him in her arms. And so, in the
strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found
courage to turn again and live.

Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through
the Pass, the General Manager placing his private car at their disposal.
It was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a
king. At every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken.
It was their friend who was being carried past. At Bull Crossing a
longer stay was made. The station house and platform and the street
behind were blocked with men who had gathered i