Every day Nurse Marion was kept busy at the hospital. She had three injured men to look after now instead of one, and from early morn until late at night she cared for her patients. She found Nance of great assistance, and looked forward to her arrival every afternoon. In fact, she was more drawn to this maiden of the wilderness than to any other woman she had met for years. She was charmed with her simplicity and naturalness of manner. There was nothing artificial about her. She had none of the languid veneer of many of the young women in towns and cities. She was so anxious to learn, and quick in acquiring knowledge, that the nurse was delighted. During the few weeks that they were together it was remarkable the progress Nance made in the ways of house-keeping, sewing, and cooking, as well as looking after the patients.

Beryl needed a companion upon whom she could depend. For years her life had been a lonely one, notwithstanding her constant activity. People loved her, and the miners down river almost worshipped her. For them there had always been a ready smile and a sympathetic word of cheer or comfort. But none knew of the great sorrow which had come into her life years before, nor the heaviness of her heart at times as she went about her daily duties. Try as she might she could not banish from her mind the one who had been the cause of her sorrow. Hers was not a nature which could lightly put away precious memories and reach out and enjoy things which were new. Her love had been too deep and sacred to be cast off at the least pretext or provocation. She had often heard young people talking about love as something that could be worn to-day like a beautiful robe and cast aside to-morrow and forgotten. Of such a love she knew nothing. Love to her was an inseparable attribute, constantly with her, and forming a part of her very being as the fragrance is to the rose.

Of her past life, and the longing which still dwelt in her heart for the one whom she had never expected to see again, she could not speak to others. The mere idea of bringing forth all of those memories for people to gaze upon and discuss was most horrible to her sensitive nature. There was nothing in common, not the slightest link, between the ones she daily met and her own past life. They could lavish their affection upon her, praise her, and admire her, but still she felt alone. She could touch the world of activity and seem to take her place naturally among men and women, but they could not enter into her life. There she had remained alone until Nance crossed her path. Then a marvellous change had taken place. Nance was not only different from others she had met, but she was the one link between the past and the present.

To no one had Beryl breathed Martin's name after his disgrace. But with Nance it was otherwise. She could talk to her freely about him with no reserve whatsoever. During their quiet afternoon hours each day she skilfully drew from Nance the story of her young life as far back as she could remember. Often Beryl's eyes would fill with tears as she listened to the brave, earnest struggle Martin had made to care for the waif of the wild, and to develop her mind. Nance told her story well, and the listener hung on every word with the most intense interest. Often the nurse would watch Nance as she moved about the room. She was really Martin's child. He had stamped upon her his own personality. She even spoke as he did, and Beryl noted that she pronounced certain words with the same accent that she knew was peculiar to Martin. The more she was with Nance, and learned from her lips of what her foster-father had done for her, the more deeply wrung was Beryl's heart. She recalled the fierce denunciations which had been heaped upon him after his fall, while she alone had been silent. A great longing now came into her heart to publish to the world the story of what he had done for an orphan child in the northern wilderness. If those who had denounced him the most bitterly only knew, she often said to herself, would they not think of him in a different light, and judge him less harshly?

"You must be very happy here, nurse," Nance naÏvely remarked one afternoon, as the two were sitting by the window.

"Why, what makes you think so?" was the surprised reply.

"Because you are so beautiful, and do so much good to others."

Nurse Marion's cheeks flushed, and her head bent lower over her work.

"Do you know," and she lifted her eyes to her companion's face, "that I have often thought the same thing about you?"

"About me! Oh, nurse, what could make you think such a thing?"

"You are pretty, happy, and you have done much."

"I never knew that I was pretty until Dick told me, and I am glad that I am—for his sake. But what have I done in life? I have had no chance like you."

"If I am not mistaken, Nance, you have done very much for a lonely man. Did you ever think how strange it is that your father—I can't help calling him that—should have left the ways of civilisation to bury himself here in the wilderness?"

"I have thought about it at times, and I once spoke of it to daddy."

"And what did he say?"

"He did not answer me, but such a sorrowful expression came into his eyes that I never had the heart to ask him again."

"I have thought very much about it, Nance," the nurse continued. "There surely must have been some great trouble in his past life which sent him away from his friends and relatives. Did you ever think about that?"

"Why, no!"

"It must have been something terrible, whatever it was, and his heart must have been full of the deepest despair. Now, suppose you had not come into his life, what do you think would have happened?"

"I do not know. Do you?"

"Not altogether, but I can partly imagine. He might have united himself to the Indians, and lived like one of them, or, what is more likely, he would have brooded over his trouble, until, on the verge of despair, he might have ended his life."

"Oh! do you think so?" and Nance clasped her hands before her, while her eyes looked big with wonder. "Would daddy have done that?"

"He might have done so if he had not found you. You have been his guardian angel during his long life in this country. Upon you he has lavished his affections. For you he lived and toiled. You brought out the best that was in him. You do not know, you cannot fully understand now what great things you have done for him. He might have been dead, or worse than dead, but for you."

Stirred by her deep emotions, Nurse Marion had risen to her feet, and was standing over Nance. Her face was flushed, and her eyes glowed with the light of excitement. She checked herself almost instantly, however, upon observing her companion's wondering look. With a slight forced laugh she straightened herself up, and resumed her former calm manner.

All through the evening Nance thought over what the nurse had said about her father. She quietly studied him as he sat smoking before the fire. She had always known that she owed much to him, but that she had done anything in return was an altogether new idea. If there had been great trouble in his past life, why had he not mentioned it to her? she wondered. Perhaps the nurse was mistaken in what she had surmised. The thought that she knew for a certainty whereof she spoke never once entered Nance's mind. But there came to her the remembrance of her father's peculiar action at times, especially since the arrival of the miners. This had often puzzled her. She had spoken of it to Dick, why not mention it to Nurse Marion as well? It would relieve her mind, at any rate, to talk it over with a woman. She would do so the next day, so she decided.

When Nance crossed over to the hospital the following afternoon she found Dick there. He and the nurse were both greatly excited, caused by the can of gold, which was before them on the table.

"It was on the sill just outside when I opened the door this morning," Nurse Marion explained as Nance approached. "I could not understand what was the meaning of it until I discovered this note," and she pointed to the slip of paper.

"For the new church, from one who wishes to remain unknown."

That was all, and as Nance scanned the words she felt sure that she recognised her father's handwriting. Then she glanced toward the can, and it, too, looked familiar. Though she had not seen it for years she remembered now the first time she had looked upon it, when the Indians had brought it over the mountains from the trading post, filled with tea. The picture of a beautiful flower on the outside had interested her greatly, and she had often looked upon it as a child as it sat upon the shelf against the wall. Then it had disappeared, and she had forgotten about it until now.

"I haven't the least idea who has given all this gold for the church building."

Nance heard Dick utter these words, but his voice appeared far away, and she herself seemed to be dreaming. Her father had given the gold she was quite certain. He must have taken it from the strong-room, and brought it over at night. But why did he wish his name to be unknown? Why had he given all of this for the church when he himself would not attend service?

She took a seat by the side of the little table and watched Dick as he emptied out the gold. What beautiful nuggets there were, both large and small.

"My! they look good," the missionary exclaimed. "How fascinating they are. There will be enough to finish the church, I do believe."

"Some one has a big heart," Nurse Marion replied, looking down thoughtfully upon the gleaming pile before her. "How strange that he should have left it at my door."

Nance listened to the conversation, but said nothing. She was unusually quiet. She longed to tell all she knew about the gold. But this she must not do. Her father did not wish any one to know what he had done, so she must be true to him, and tell the secret to no one, not even to Dick. The latter noted her silence, and wondered what was the matter.

"What are you going to do with the can?" she at length asked.

"Keep the gold in it, of course. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I hardly know, except—that—if you were not going to use it, I should like to have it."

"For a keepsake?"

"Yes. But if you need it, never mind."

"Why, you are welcome to it. I can put the gold in something else."

Nance said no more then, but that evening as she was leaving the hospital she picked up the can, and wrapped it up carefully in the apron she had been wearing that afternoon. Dick was waiting to accompany her home, and an amused smile played about the corners of his mouth as he observed what she was doing.

Nurse Marion watched them as they left the building, and walked slowly down to the river. They were so happy in each other's company that her own sense of loneliness sank deeper than ever into her soul.