Nance stood for a while in the doorway, and watched the retreating form of Dick Russell as it disappeared among the trees. She then turned back into the room, while Martin went off to cut some wood for the fire. The house seemed very lonely now to Nance and strangely silent. It had never appeared so before, and Nance could not understand the reason. She went about her work of washing the dishes and looking after the room, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Her mind dwelt continually upon the stranger who had come so suddenly into her life. She wondered who he was, and what he was doing in the country. He did not come to stake a claim for himself, so she had heard him say. What, then, was his purpose in making the journey over such a terrible trail at this season of the year? She longed to talk the matter over with Martin when he came in with the wood, but for the first time in her young life she found it most difficult to confide in the man who had done so much for her. Several times during the morning she was on the point of speaking, but on each occasion her lips refused to fashion the words, and she became so confused that she was certain Martin would notice her flushed cheeks.

And Martin did notice, although he said nothing. He observed Nance's quiet and preoccupied manner, which was so different from her bright and buoyant disposition. He partly surmised the cause, and it pressed heavily like a great weight upon his heart. He understood how natural it was that Nance, who had never met white men before, should consider this stranger in the light of a hero. He knew how impulsive was her nature, and how ready was her heart to respond to the call of love. Had she been brought up to the ways of the busy world, and had met people of her own age and race, she would, like other maidens of her years, not have been so stirred by the presence of this stranger. But no one had ever told her about the subtle ways of the heart. She was a child of the wilderness, brought up to live and commune with nature. Martin had taught her book knowledge and much about the things of the civilised world. But of the deep passions of the heart he had been silent, and Nance, though now a woman in years, was in many ways but a mere child.

Martin thought of these things now as he had never done before. Nance was all that he had in the world, and he had fondly cherished the idea that she would always be with him to care for him and to love him. But now he realised that he was to be supplanted, and by a stranger at that, a mere stripling, whom Nance had seen for only one hour. It was but natural that a spirit of resentment should rise in his heart as he thought of these things.

All through the morning, and for most of the afternoon, Tom, the white-haired and long-bearded old man, slept upon the cot. It was a sound, natural sleep, and at times Nance went over and stood by his side. His face strongly appealed to her. Lines of care furrowed his brow, and his cheeks were very wan. Occasionally as she watched him a smile would play about the corners of his mouth as if his dreams were pleasant. Nance wondered if he had any one who thought of him in love, and whom he loved in return.

Toward evening the old man opened his eyes, and saw Nance standing by his side. He started up in surprise.

"Nell, Nell, is that you?" he demanded.

Then seeing the look of astonishment upon Nance's face, he sank back upon the pillow, while a deep sigh escaped his lips.

"Fergive me, Miss," he said. "I had sich a beautiful dream, an' when I opened my eyes an' saw you a-standin' there I was sure it was my Nell."

"Would you like to see her?" Nance asked. "Would you like for her to be standing by your side now? How you must miss her."

"I do, I do," was the emphatic reply. "God alone knows how I long fer her!"

"Can't you go to her, then? Or why doesn't she come to you?"

"That can't be, Miss. It's been twenty years since she left me, an' I've been wanderin' ever since. I laid her in the little churchyard way back East, an' I haven't seen the spot since. But I see her in a way, an' that's all I can expect on this earth now. She's ever with me day an' night. Out in the hills she's by my side, an' I often talk to her jist like I used to do years ago, an' it's very comfortin'."

"W-was she your daughter?" Nance queried.

"No, Miss. She was my wife."

"Oh!"

"Yes," the old man continued after a pause, "she was my wife, an' we'd been married scarce one year when she left me."

"Poor man!" Nance soothed. "How hard it must have been for you. You have no home, then, and no one to love you?"

"Well, I can't altogether say that, Miss. My home is wherever night overtakes me, but it's seldom in sich a comfortable place as this. I've friends a plenty, but no one to care fer me jist like Nell used to do. I can't expect it. People have about as much as they can do to look after themselves without botherin' about an old man who has one foot in the grave."

"But you must get very sad and lonely at times," Nance remarked.

"I do, Miss; I certainly do."

"How do you keep so cheerful, then?"

"How d'ye know that I keep cheerful?" and Tom looked his surprise.

"Oh, that man who came with you told us that you were the life of the camp at Rapid City last winter."

"Did Dick really say that, Miss? An' did he tell ye anything about himself?"

"No."

"Well, that's jist like 'im. But I'll tell ye some day. It's gittin' on toward night now, isn't it, Miss? I think I'll git up and sit by yon bright fire fer a while, an' have a smoke. Dick should be back soon."

"Do you feel better?" Nance asked.

"Feel fine. That deep was jist what I needed."

"I am so glad," and Nance's eyes beamed with happiness. "I shall get you something to eat at once, for you must be very hungry. Daddy will be home soon, and he will want his supper, too."

"I am hungry, Miss, fer I haven't had a good square meal since I left the river."

Ensconced in Martin's big chair to the right of the fire, the old man leaned back and puffed away at his blackened pipe, at the same time keeping his eyes upon Nance as she moved quietly about the room.

"Ye do remind me of my Nell," he at length remarked, taking the pipe from his mouth and blowing a great volume of smoke into the air. "She was about your size, an' fixed up her hair in the same way. I remember how I used to sit by the fire, jist as I am now, when the day's work was done, an' watch her gittin' supper. This certainly does remind me of old times."

"How happy you must have been," Nance replied. "Have you been in this northern country ever since?"

"Ah, no. I've travelled over many parts, but I like this the best."

"I suppose it's the gold which keeps you here. I should think that it would be nicer outside where you would meet more people, and life would not be so hard."

"So it would be, Miss. I would like to be near the place where my Nell is lyin'. But one needs the gold to live there, an' as soon as I git it I'm a-goin' to hike back. But there, I don't know as if the gold'll make me any happier. It's the searchin' fer it, an' the findin' it, that gives the pleasure."

"It must be nice outside," Nance remarked. "I have heard so much about the many things there that I should like to see them."

"Have ye never been outside, Miss?" Tom asked in surprise.

"No, I've lived all my life in the wilderness."

"What! Ye don't say so! Well, I declare! If that don't beat all!"

Just then the door opened, and Martin entered.

"I'm glad to see you sitting up," he began, coming close to Tom. "How are you feeling now?"

"Great. Never felt better in me life. An' why shouldn't I with sich comforts as a good fire, my pipe, an' yer sweet daughter to talk to me an' wait upon me? We've been havin' a fine time together."

"That's good," Martin returned. "But I think that supper will make you feel better still. We can have a pipe together afterwards. It's been a long time since I've had any one to smoke with except the Indians."

They were partly through with the meal when Dick returned. He looked very tired, although his voice was cheery as he greeted his companion of the trail.

"It's good to see you sitting there, Tom," he said, as he took the seat Nance had placed for him.

"It's the lassie who has done the trick, pard," and Tom jerked his head toward Nance. "She's the cause of my sudden return to health."

Nance's face flushed, not so much because of Tom's words as from the eyes of the young man, which were turned upon her with gratitude.

"Oh, I haven't done anything," she replied, as she poured out a cup of steaming tea for Dick. "It was the sleep that did it."

"Only partly, Miss; only partly," Tom rejoined. "Sleep an' food don't do everything toward makin' one feel that life is worth livin'. Ah, no. An old man like me knows a thing or two. But say," and he turned suddenly toward the young man across the table, "how did ye make out up stream, pard?"

An anxious expression came into Dick Russell's eyes. This passed almost instantly, however, although it did not escape Tom's searching look.

"I got along fairly well, and staked a claim at the very edge of some old diggings I found there. How the rest happened to overlook the place I cannot understand. But they are about crazy and hardly know what they are doing."

"Are they camping up there to-night?" Martin asked.

"I can't say that they are camping. They are there for the night, that's sure. But they've been rushing about like mad ever since they reached the place. They will spend the night on the ground just as they have been doing since leaving Rapid City. But their grub is about all gone. If they don't get some from the Indians they'll be in a bad fix."

"Dear me!" Tom murmured.

"The Indians can't help them much," Martin explained. "They are living from hand to mouth themselves now. They generally are at this time of the year."

"We could give them something to eat, couldn't we, daddy?" and Nance looked over at her father.

"Yes, I suppose we could give them something," was the reluctant reply. "But we haven't enough for a crowd of hungry men."

"Oh, they'll make out all right," Dick hastened to explain. "They don't know to-night what they are eating. Hard-tack and roast turkey would be about the same thing to them. When I left they were sitting about a great blazing fire, munching the scraps of food they had left. They are clean daft over the discovery of that gold. I have been chuckling to myself ever since I left them over what they were saying. They are already planning what they are to do with the gold when they get it. One intends to buy a ranch, and keep, I don't know how many, horses and cattle. Another will tour the world. Some have decided to go back to the big cities to live in fine houses they expect to build. But Dobson, generally known as 'Whiskey Jack,' is going on a big spree just as soon as he gets outside."

"Yes, yes, they'll all follow Jack's example, I'm afraid," Tom sadly replied. "I know their kind only too well. They always plan big things, but as a rule they lose it all in whiskey, gambling, and——But there," he suddenly broke off, "it has always been so, an' what's the use of us worryin' about it?"

"But some one must worry, Tom," was Dick's emphatic reply. "Too many say the same thing. But I know better. I never saw a finer lot of men in my life. They are rough at times, I know. There are a few who gave us trouble last winter, but most of them were good fellows at Rapid City, and you know it."

"Sure thing, pard, sure thing. I'm not denyin' that. But I guess it was you who kept them straight, an' made them show up their best side."

"What about yourself, Tom? You had a big hand in the whole affair, if I am not much mistaken."

Supper ended, Nance began to clear away the dishes. Martin and Tom brought forth their pipes and sat down before the fire for a comfortable chat.

"You men smoke away to your hearts' content," Dick laughed. "I'm going to help with the dishes, that is, if I may," and he turned to Nance.

"No, no, please," the latter hurriedly replied. "I can do them quickly, so don't you bother about them."

"It's no bother, I assure you. But, say, what shall I call you?"

"Nance, just Nance," was the reply.

"But I must not call you that. It wouldn't be right for a stranger to call you that. Wouldn't 'Miss Rutland' sound better?"

"No. Please call me Nance. I like it better, and I have never been called anything else."

"Very well, then, Nance," Dick laughed, as he began to clear away the dishes. "I am not going to see you doing all the work while three men sit lazily before the fire. It wouldn't be fair."

"But I would rather——"

"Let him alone, Miss," Tom interrupted. "He's a good hand at sich things, an' he'll enjoy the job. He can't be still fer two minutes at a time."

Thus while Martin and Tom smoked and talked the two young people looked after the dishes. Dick did most of the talking. He told Nance about his experiences at Rapid City during the past winter. At some of his stories Nance laughed heartily, especially when he told of the dogs stealing his supper one night.

"It wasn't very funny then, I assure you," Dick explained. "But perhaps the poor dogs needed the food more than I did."

By the time the dishes were washed, wiped, and put away, Dick and Nance were firm friends, and somewhat reluctantly they joined the others before the fire.

"May I have a look at your books, sir?" Dick asked, turning to Martin. "I've had my eyes upon them all the evening."

"Not upon the books alone, eh, pard?" Tom chuckled.

"Look at them to your heart's content," Martin replied. "My library is very small, and I am afraid you will find but little there to interest you."

Dick soon returned, bringing with him three small books.

"I've made a strike to-night," he exclaimed, "which is of more interest to me than the gold of the Quaska. Just think, here I have Hazlitt's 'Table Talk,' Emerson's 'Essays,' and Carlyle's 'Heroes and Hero Worship.' I didn't know that there were such books as these anywhere in this country," and he looked curiously toward Martin.

"You know them, then?" the latter queried, his interest now becoming much aroused in the young man.

"Know them! I should say I do. But it has been years since I read them, and of course I have forgotten much. It will all come back again, however, for one never really forgets. May I take Hazlitt with me to-morrow? It will be a great comfort, and I shall take good care of it."

"Ask Nance," Martin replied. "We are co-partners. You have my consent to take the book, but you must get hers as well."

"Have you read these?" Dick asked in surprise, turning toward the young woman sitting near by.

"Oh, yes," was the blushing reply. "I have read them all several times, and found them so nice."

"Now jist listen to that, pard," Tom spoke up. "There's something like a woman fer ye. I don't think ye'd find many young women outside readin' sich books. They'd want novels, an' sich like."

"I think I should like novels, too," Nance replied. "I have heard about them, and they must be nice."

"You are better off without many of the novels of to-day," Dick returned. "Such books as these have done me much good. I read as many as I could while at college, but of late years I have had little opportunity for reading."

"Did you read such books as these when you were at college?" Martin asked. "I was of the opinion that you studied only medical works."

"Oh, I read as widely as possible, especially at Kings, away back East, before I went to McGill."

As Dick uttered these words Martin gave a distinct start, and looked searchingly into the young man's face. The mention of the former college brought to his mind many thoughts. He himself had graduated from the same Institution years before, and he knew that it was principally a divinity college, where young men were trained for the Ministry.

"And what course did you take there?" he asked as calmly as possible, although his heart beat faster than usual.

"I took Arts and studied Divinity," Dick responded.

"Then you are a——?" Martin could not form the word. A strange feeling swept upon him. He suddenly recalled the warning of his old bishop, especially his closing words, "The Church and her teaching will follow you to the grave, no matter to what part of the world you go."

"He's a parson as well as a doctor, that's what he is," Tom explained, noticing his host's hesitation.

Martin rose suddenly to his feet, picked up his hat, and silently left the building. Once outside he stood as if uncertain what course to pursue. Then he paced rapidly up and down before the house. His brain throbbed and beat with wild emotions. "And has it come to this?" he asked himself. "I have taken in a minion of the Church; I have allowed him to enter my cabin and break bread with me. Had I known who he was he should never have crossed the threshold. And he has won Nance's heart and supplanted me in her affections. And to think that I have kept her hidden away here all of these years, and this is the end! But no, by God, it shall not be! I will not lose her! I have fled from the Church, and it has followed me into the wilderness, and is about to wrench from my grasp the one who is dearer to me than life. It shall not be. No longer shall that man remain beneath my roof. He came here under the guise of a doctor. Why didn't he say plainly and frankly what he was? He seems to be ashamed of his profession."

Seldom had Martin ever allowed himself to be so angry with any one. He had always prided himself upon his calmness. But it was the thought of this stranger, and a clergyman at that, coming to the place and winning Nance's heart which stirred his inmost depths. He stood for a few moments looking out across the lake. The perspiration appeared in great beads upon his forehead. Presently he heard Dick's hearty laugh, and this annoyed him all the more. He would soon stop that. He took a step toward the door, but stopped as the sound of violin music fell upon his ears. It was Nance playing. Then some one began to sing. It was a clear, strong tenor voice, which he recognised as that of the young stranger.

Martin listened for a few moments and then, pushing open the door, he entered. No one noticed him as he moved quietly towards the fire. He paused in the middle of the room, strangely affected. It was not the music which caused him to hesitate and place his hand to his forehead in a perplexed manner. It was the expression of supreme happiness depicted upon Nance's face which held him spellbound. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were flushed with pleasure as she drew the bow skilfully across the strings.

Martin's anger cooled as he looked upon this peaceful scene. It was a striking and a rebuking contrast to the hell in his own heart, and he knew it. He moved quietly forward, took his seat to the left of the fire, and remained silently there for the rest of the evening. But long after the others were wrapped in slumber Martin sat before the dying embers, fighting the hardest of all battles—the battle of the heart.