Next morning Nance was up earlier than usual. Her step was light as she moved about the room preparing breakfast. She was happier than she had been for many a day, for the meeting with Nurse Marion had a wonderful effect upon her young life. She was thinking now of everything the nurse had said. She wanted to be like her, and then she was sure that Dick would not be ashamed of her. She thought, too, of the hospital, and how delightful it would be to assist with the patients. She was very anxious to be over there, for she felt certain that the nurse would need her.

The idea of a service on Sunday night interested her very much. She had some doubt about her ability to play. She felt sure that she would be nervous, and perhaps break down. But then she knew that Dick and the nurse would help her out, so everything would be all right. She wondered if her father would go over to the service. If so, and he consented to play, it would make it so much easier for her.

While these thoughts were running through Nance's mind Martin drew near. He had taken his early morning walk as usual, after having made on the fire and called Nance. He heard her humming a tune before he reached the door, and he was not slow in detecting the note of happiness which could only come from a heart overflowing with peace and joy. He paused upon the threshold to look upon her. Though always fair and graceful to his eyes she seemed to excel in loveliness as she stood before him this morning.

Nance greeted him with a bright smile as he entered the room.

"Breakfast is all ready, daddy. You must be hungry."

"Indeed I am," was the reply. "My walk has sharpened my appetite."

Together over the meal the two discussed the affairs at the mining town. The scraps of news they had heard were of much interest. But Nance's mind was upon Nurse Marion, and about her she talked. She told her father over again what had happened at the hospital on the previous day. Martin did not attempt to restrain her. In fact, he did not wish to do so now. He listened attentively to every word she uttered, and at times found himself leaning eagerly forward that he might not miss anything.

"And only think, daddy!" she cried, "Nurse Marion wants me to help her whenever I can. She said she was so pleased to have me, and I told her that I would go if you would let me. And you will, daddy, won't you?"

"Yes, little one, if it will make you happy. I can trust you with—with Nurse Marion."

"But I will look after our house, daddy, just the same. I will cook, wash, and do all the house work. I shall get up very, very early, and attend to it. Then I can spend the afternoons at the hospital, and learn so many things from Nurse Marion. I long more and more to be a nurse, and I know that she will teach me. Won't it be strange, daddy, to see the hospital full of miners next Sunday?"

"It certainly will, Nance. But perhaps not many of them will be there."

"You will go, daddy, will you not?" Nance asked. "I don't see how I can play alone. If you are there I shall not mind it one bit."

"Nance?" and Martin looked straight into the maiden's eyes as he uttered her name.

"Yes, daddy."

"I want you to promise me two things."

"Yes, daddy."

"You are never again to ask me to go to any service across the river, neither are you to inquire as to the reason why I wish you to promise me this."

"Yes, daddy, I promise," was the faltering response.

"That's good. Now don't forget, little one."

Martin's mind was now doubly agitated. He became exceedingly restless, and spent most of his time out on the hills. Here, and alone, he could brood over the strange events which had come so recently into his life. Besides the deep stirring of his heart, owing to Beryl's arrival, he was face to face with the question of the service to be held at the hospital Sunday night. His thoughts went back to the days when he would have looked forward with joy for the time to arrive when he could take part in the beautiful service of the Church to which he had once belonged. But now an outcast, not only by his bishop, but also by his own conscience, the punishment was almost more than he could endure. How truly did he understand the words of the aged bishop. He had laughed scornfully at them then, little realising how terribly true they were, and how the day would come when their fulfilment would give him such intense mental agony.

Often he would sit under the shade of some tree, and look down over the lake, especially upon the hospital, which appeared like a speck in the distance. He would picture Beryl—not Nurse Marion to him—moving about the building, and attending to the wants of the patient. He knew that Nance was there most of the day, talking with Beryl, and looking into her face. The latter was constantly before him, not as a nurse, with hair streaked with grey, but as he had seen her seated at the piano on that Christmas eve as he watched her through the window of her old home. All the love which he then had for this beautiful woman came back upon him with greater intensity now because of the smouldering fire of long years, and the thought that she could never be his, nor could he speak to her, nor listen to her voice.

Every night Martin would come back home with face drawn and haggard, and an absent, far-away look in his eyes. Nance became much worried about him, and confided her trouble to Dick.

"Perhaps it is the arrival of the miners that is affecting him," the latter suggested.

"It may be that," Nance mused. "Still I cannot understand him. He is away from home most of the day, and when he comes back he looks so strange. I asked him to go to service Sunday night and play with me."

"Will he?" Dick eagerly inquired. "That would be such a help."

"No, he will not go, and he made me promise that I would never ask him again."

"Why? I wonder."

"He made me promise further that I would never ask him to tell the reason why he would not go."

"Oh!"

Dick was as much puzzled as Nance over Martin's strange behaviour, and the next day he mentioned the matter to Tom. It was Sunday afternoon, and the prospector had come into town to be early for the service, and to assist in any way he could with the preparations.

"So he refused to come an' play, did he?" Tom questioned.

"Refused point-blank, so Nance said, and he made her promise that she would never again ask him to go to service, nor the reason why he would not do so. Now, what can you make out of that?"

"He's a reason, no doubt," was the reply.

"Don't you remember, Tom," Dick continued, "how strangely he acted when we first came to his house last spring?"

"I haven't fergotten, pard. He certainly did act queer. It was a problem to me."

Tom didn't say that it was a problem no longer. He understood now very well why Martin was unwilling to attend the service, and accordingly had demanded those promises from Nance. But nothing would induce him to divulge any of the knowledge of Martin's past life which he himself had acquired. "What people don't know about sich things," he had said to himself, "won't do any harm, an' it might make matters very uncomfortable fer Martin an' the lassie."

Martin was unusually quiet all day Sunday. He did not go out to the hills, but sat under the shade of a large tree near the house, reading, or pretending to do so. Nance was with him most of the day reading a book Nurse Marion had let her have. It was entitled "In the Service of the King," and dealt with the work of trained nurses in all lands. Several chapters told of the heroic services of devoted women in the mission fields. Nance was thrilled and delighted with the book. At times she would call her father's attention to some striking passage, and read it to him.

As the afternoon waned Nance left home, for Nurse Marion had invited her to tea in her little room.

"You do not mind my leaving you, daddy?" she asked, putting her arms around his neck, and giving him an affectionate kiss.

"I am always pleased to see you happy, little one," Martin replied with a smile.

But as he watched her as she moved lightly down to the canoe, carrying her violin with her, a great loneliness swept over him. He knew that in reality Nance's heart was not with him, but over the river with Dick and the nurse. The thought that she could go to the service with such a free-from-care spirit pressed heavily upon his soul. He saw now that the time was not far off when she would be no longer with him to kiss him good-bye. A new life of freedom and service was opening up to her, while for him the future held only misery in store. The associations of the wilderness would attract Nance but a little longer, he could see that, and then he would be left alone.

Martin prepared his supper, but ate little, as he missed the familiar form at the head of the table. He soon pushed back his stool, rose and went to the door. The room appeared unbearably close to-night, and he needed the freshness of the open air. He sat outside, lighted his pipe, and smoked. His eyes were fixed constantly upon the hospital across the river. He knew that it would be late before the service began, for the miners would not gather until darkness had spread over the land. Thus hour after hour he remained there, and had Nance looked forth she might have seen his form appearing like a speck against the log building. But she was too much engaged with other things just then to think of the lone watcher on the opposite bank.

The sun swung down behind the tall mountain peaks, and twilight settled over the land. Then Martin rose, closed the door of his house, and walked rapidly toward the Indian village. Here he obtained Taku's canoe, and paddled slowly out upon the lake. Several times he passed by the mining town, and noted the stir about the door of the saloon. Near the hospital, some distance away, scarcely a person was to be seen. Was the service to be a failure after all? he asked himself. At length he saw a number of men sauntering toward the river, followed after a while by others. Thus he knew that the movement for the service had begun. He continued his paddling around, keeping at the same time a close watch upon the land until he felt sure that all who were going had entered the hospital. He then headed the canoe up the river, stopping at length at the very place where Nance had landed that afternoon.

Trees lining the bank draped the shore in deep shadows, and here Martin crouched, listening with straining ears for whatever sounds might come from the building above. He had not long to wait before he heard the sweet strains of Nance's violin sounding forth upon the still night air. It was the familiar tune of a well-known hymn, and soon he heard numerous voices lifted up with one accord.

When the singing ceased a deep silence ensued. Then some one began to speak, and Martin knew that the missionary had begun the service. Occasionally a few familiar words reached him, and he was thus enabled to follow what was being said without much difficulty.

As he remained crouching there amid the deepening darkness, he pictured to himself what was taking place within the hospital. He could see the miners seated around the room on rough benches, and the missionary standing before them reading the service. Nance, no doubt, was near, holding her violin in her hands, waiting for the next hymn. But where was Beryl? he wondered. Was she sitting near Nance? The memory of the many times he had seen her seated at the organ in the church in his first and only parish came upon him now with a sudden stabbing intensity. He recalled, especially, one bright, beautiful July day. The windows of the church were open. Bees hummed among the flowers outside, birds chirped and sang, while the perfume of fragrant fields was wafted into the building. There were sweet flowers, he remembered, upon the Communion Table, and on the organ. Beryl, all in white, was sitting in her accustomed place, and during the service he stole an occasional glance in her direction. He noted the happiness upon her face, and the expression of love in her eyes as she played. How full of peace and joy was his heart that day. He had been lifted up to the seventh heaven of ecstasy. And yet from that state of bliss he had fallen, and had plunged into the deep abyss of hell and despair. He thought of the angels who had been driven headlong out of heaven, and of the first parents thrust out from the Garden of Eden. To have known the joy and peace of walking with the Master made the sting of banishment all the more terribly poignant.

The sound of the violin again striking up roused Martin from his reverie. The tune as before was familiar, and he hummed it to himself. But this time there was no chorus of discordant voices. One alone was singing, and the crouching man started, and then sprang to his feet as the sound reached his ears. It was a woman's voice, and he at once recognised it as Beryl's.

Martin stood there beneath the trees, every nerve alert, and his ears strained so as not to miss one note of that voice which had been silent to him for years. Suddenly an over-mastering impulse seized him to behold once again the face of the singer. He accordingly moved up the hill like a man impelled forward by some unseen power. Reaching the corner of the building, he paused just for an instant, and then stepped to the door, which was wide open, and looked in. His eyes roamed for an instant around the room. He saw as in a dream the miners seated there, almost breathless, with their faces turned in one direction. Then his eyes rested upon Beryl! As he saw her he clutched the side of the door for support, while his face went deathly white. Yes, it was she, there was no mistake, the same form, the same face, though more worn than when last he beheld it, and the same sweet voice, but filled with a vibrant note of sadness.

When the last note had rippled forth, a silence which could be felt pervaded the room. Then a sound, half sob and half wail of despair, caused the miners to look hurriedly around. Those nearest the door caught a fleeting glimpse of a face white and haggard, which disappeared instantly into the night.

Later, when Nance walked slowly homeward, with Dick by her side, Martin was sitting before the door of his house awaiting her return.