All through the rest of the summer Martin carried on his mining operations, and steadily the pile of gold within the cabin increased. At length the cold nights and the short days warned him that winter was fast approaching. He accordingly began to wonder what he should do with his treasure. He did not care to have it lying about in the house, as it was hard to tell what might happen to it. At any time a white man might drift that way, and he well knew that dark deeds had been committed with a far lesser motive than the seizure of so much gold. It would prove a temptation to almost any man. He would often awake with a start in the dead of night thinking that some one was creeping stealthily across the floor. Formerly he would sit late before the fire with never a shadow of a fear upon his mind. But now he would turn apprehensively towards the window, thinking that faces were peering in upon him. He hardly liked to be away from home for any length of time lest something should happen to the gold during his absence.

His mind became so obsessed with this idea that he became nervous, and his peace of mind vanished. At last he determined to deposit the gold in a secure place. After careful consideration he dug a hole in the ground at the back of the cabin. At the bottom he placed a large flat stone, walled up the sides, and plastered them over with clay, such as he had used upon the fire-place and chimney.

When this had been finished to his satisfaction he erected over it a small, strong log building, the back of the cabin forming one of the sides, through which he cut a door. There was no other opening in the lean-to, not even a window, so the place would always be in darkness except when lighted by a candle. In the floor, and immediately over the excavation, he fastened a trap-door, fitting the flat-hewn pieces of timber in such an irregular manner that no one would ever suspect that there was any opening in the floor at all. Then when the roof was placed in position, and all finished, Martin brought the gold from the cabin and deposited it in his ground vault. When the trap-door was dropped back into place Martin viewed everything with great approval. He called this building his "Bank," and he often smiled to himself as he considered what a unique bank it really was. He alone was the president, shareholder, and depositor. There were no books to keep, and no regular hours in which to do business. There was no competition, and no anxious watching of the fluctuations in the money market. He had full control of everything, and to no one did he have to render any account.

Martin's mind thus became so filled with the lure of the gold that for weeks everything else was either neglected or forgotten. From morning till night, and often during the night, he thought of the wealth he was acquiring. The fear lest the missionary should visit the encampment troubled him very little. Nance, too, received but a small share of his attention. He found it difficult to play with her, or to tell her the stories for which she asked. She was left more and more to Quabee's tender care, and always ran to the Indian woman with her little troubles. Martin did not notice that the child was eating less of late, neither did he awaken to the fact that her happy joyous laugh was seldom heard. She would often sit quietly by herself, holding her doll in her arms, while her big open eyes gazed far off into space.

One morning when Nance did not get up at her usual time Martin went to her cot.

"What's the matter, little one?" he asked. "You are sleepy this morning."

A faint smile trembled about the corners of the child's mouth, but she made no reply.

As this was something unusual, Martin became anxious. He placed his hand to her forehead, and found that it was very hot.

"Nance, Nance! are you sick?" he cried, as he bent and looked searchingly into her eyes.

"Yes, daddy," was the low response. "I'm so tired and hot. I want Quabee."

As Martin listened to these words he was seized with a nameless dread. For the first time he noticed how very wan was her flushed face. What should he do? He was helpless in the presence of sickness. The Indian women might know what was the trouble.

"So you want Quabee, do you?" he questioned.

"Yes, I want Quabee," was the faint reply.

"Very well, then. I shall go for her at once. I won't be long."

As Martin hurried over to the Indian encampment he upbraided himself for his neglect of the child. "I've been a fool, a downright fool!" he muttered to himself. "I might have seen days ago that she was failing if I had not been so taken up with that cursed gold."

It did not take him long to tell Quabee and her mother, Naheesh, about the child's illness, and soon the three were hurrying towards the cabin.

Nance's face brightened as the young Indian woman bent over her. Martin saw the smile of greeting and it smote him sore. Knowing that the women could do all that was possible for the child, he left the building and sat upon the trunk of the old tree just outside the door. What if Nance should die? The thought was terrible. How could he live without her? He had neglected her so much that the first one she wanted was Quabee. A jealous feeling stole into his heart. And yet he knew that it was his own fault. Oh, why had he left her so much to herself? It was for her sake, he reasoned. He desired the gold for her, not for himself. But if Nance should be taken away what good would all the gold in the country amount to then?

Later when he crept softly back into the room Nance was asleep, and Quabee motioned to him to be silent. Naheesh had gone to prepare some medicine from native herbs and bark, and would return shortly. All that he could do, therefore, was to sit close by the cot and watch. Ere long Nance opened her eyes and asked for water. All through the day she tossed upon her little bed. Martin left her side hardly for a moment. She did not know him nor any one else in the room. She called often for her mother, and piteously asked why she did not come to her. The day passed and night came on, but Martin remained at his post with Quabee ever near. His eyes seldom left the child's face, and sometimes he would hold one of her little hot hands in his. How he longed for her to look up into his face, speak to him, and throw her arms about his neck. He recalled the last time she had run to him. It was when he was busy sorting the gold he had gathered that day. He had put her away somewhat abruptly, telling her that he was very busy, and that she must not bother him. She had looked surprised, her lips had quivered as she turned away towards Quabee. How forcibly the whole incident came to him now. What would he not give to have her put her arms around his neck and ask him to play with her as of old.

The second night of Nance's illness Martin was sitting alone by her side, as Quabee had gone back to her own lodge for a much-needed rest. The faithfulness and self-denial of the young Indian woman made a deep impression upon his mind. No mother could have been more attentive to her sick child than was Quabee to this motherless girl. Martin sat very still with his head bent low, but with ears keenly alert to Nance's heavy breathing. He tried to be brave and hope for the best. But as the hours dragged by he found it difficult to keep up his drooping spirits. The terrible fear was ever with him that he was to lose Nance. What should he do without her? he asked himself over and over again. With her gone, what was there for him to live for? There was no one else in the whole world who cared for him except this little child. Why should he lose her when she meant so much to him?

A vision of his past life rose suddenly before him. It came upon him with a startling intensity, and in a manner altogether different from anything he had hitherto experienced. The sin which had caused him to be an outcast upon the face of the earth loomed out of the darkness black and appalling. There was not one extenuating circumstance connected with the whole affair. He saw the woman, whose life he had ruined, left to bear her disgrace alone. Never before did he comprehend what a monster he really was. What chastisement could be severe enough to punish him for what he had done? Had he a right to expect anything else? He believed that he had suffered during the past years, but it was as nothing compared to what he was enduring this night. His very soul was being laid bare by some mysterious power which he could not fathom. Why should such thoughts arise within his bosom now? he asked himself. Was Nance to be taken away as a part of the punishment which truly belonged to him? He had often thought and preached about the miseries of the damned, but only now did he realise that a man who has sinned carries the tortures of hell within his own bosom.

Haggard and trembling, Martin staggered to his feet, and paced up and down the room. The veins stood out upon his forehead; his blood-shot eyes had the look of a hunted animal; the muscles of his body were firmly rigid, while his clenched hands had the grip of a drowning man clinging desperately for life to a few floating straws. How could he endure such agony of soul? Would it last through days, months, and years to come? He knew that such could not be the case, for if it continued much longer he would surely go raving mad.

A slight moan from Nance aroused him. Going at once to the cot, he looked down upon the face of the sleeping child. She was talking in her sleep, and listening attentively Martin could catch the words, "Mamma, Daddy." After a pause she began to repeat the words of a prayer she said every night.

Then she wandered off and talked about Quabee, her dolly, and the Christmas tree.

Martin took her little hand in his, and as he watched her a love, such as he had never before known, came into his heart. Then his eyes grew dim, and down his cheeks flowed the tears. He sank upon a stool by the cot, and buried his face in his hands. Not for years had he wept, but it was that little prayer which had unbound the flood-gates and allowed the tears to well forth. He thought of the nights she had said the same words at his knees, and how she had always prayed for her father and her mother. At length he lifted his head and in his eyes was a new light. He slipped from the stool, and sank upon his knees upon the hard floor. It was no set formal prayer which the outcast uttered this night. It was a passionate, yearning cry to the great Father above to spare the little child, and to leave her with him for a while longer.

For some time he remained in this kneeling position, but somehow he did not receive the reassuring comfort he had expected. He recalled the time when peace and comfort had always come to him on such an occasion. Now, however, it was so different. He believed that the same Father was ready to hear as of old, but why was there not the feeling of peace as formerly?

He thought of this as he knelt by the side of the sick child, with his face deep in his hands. Then in an instant it all came to him. It was his great sin which stood between him and his God! He understood for the first time the full meaning of the story of the Garden of Eden. As it was impossible for the first parents to go back to the sweet peace of their former life after they had sinned, so neither could he return to the blessed state of years ago because of the sin which he had committed. There stood before him at the gate the explicit "Nay" of the eternal God which guarded the entrance to the throne of purity and peace as truly as did the flaming revolving sword in the far-off Edenic days. He knew that he was an outcast in a more terrible manner than he had ever imagined. He was an outcast not only from his Church, but from his God. The former he had scorned, believing that he could get along without it. But an outcast from his God! He lifted his haggard face as the terrible reality dawned upon him. He rose slowly to his feet. He groped his way to the big chair, and sank heavily into it, the very epitome of wretched despair.