Outwardly Nance was very calm as she closed the door and swiftly put on her snow-shoes. But her heart was heating rapidly, and she was filled with grave apprehensions.

"What is it?" she asked as she moved along over the snow by Dick's side. "Don't hide anything from me. I want to know all."

"There is but little to tell, Nance," the young man replied. "It seems that the Indian Taku was awakened last night by the whining of one of his dogs outside the cabin door. When he had let the animal in he found that it was one of the two your father had taken with him. The poor creature was almost exhausted. It was carrying its harness and dragging its traces. Taku surmised that something was wrong and he at once started forth in the direction from which the dog had come. The storm had ceased, and the moon was full when he set out, so it was easy for him to follow the dog's tracks. They led away from Quaska, up the river, and then off to the left through that long wooded valley. He had passed only a short distance out of the woods on the upper side into a desolate region, when he found a miner, Tim Ralston, with a broken leg, lying on a sled. By his side was your father, unconscious, and to all appearance dead. With much difficulty Taku brought both men into the woods, made a small fire, and started off in post-haste for help. As luck would have it, he overtook Tom, who had been storm-stayed up the creek, and together they brought the two helpless men to the hospital. That, in brief, is the story."

As Dick ended, Nance stopped, laid her hand lightly upon his arm, and looked searchingly into his face.

"Will he live?" she gasped.

"I can't say. He has been terribly exposed. I am afraid it will go hard with him."

"And he did it for Tim!" Nance murmured. "He gave his life to save another."

Her thoughts flashed to the newspaper clipping, and her heart rebuked her for her harsh judgment but a short time before. Now she understood the motive of her father's unceasing efforts on behalf of the miners, especially this last and greatest sacrifice of all. She did not, however, reveal her knowledge to Dick, but hastened on, anxious to reach Martin's side as soon as possible. Arriving at length at the hospital door, she and Dick laid aside their snow-shoes, and quietly entered. All was still within as they passed through the main ward into Nurse Marion's room.

Here Martin was lying upon the one cot the room contained, and by his side sat the nurse. She did not hear the steps at the door, for her thoughts were upon the unconscious man before her. In her eyes was an expression which had not been seen there since the days when he so often visited her in her old home years before. She was thinking of that time now, and she was picturing Martin as she then knew him. At first it was hard for her to believe that this bronzed and bearded man was the same as she had known then and cherished in her memory ever since. She studied his face and saw there something of the terrible struggle through which he had passed. She imagined his agony of mind after his fall, and what it must have meant for him to live away in the wilderness, cut off from all the benefits of civilised life. No sense of anger or reproach came to her mind now as she sat there, but only a pity and a love, such as she had never known, possessed her heart.

Nance paused but for an instant at the door, and then with a cry hurried forward, and knelt by the side of the bed. She seized Martin's right hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips.

"Daddy! daddy!" she cried. "I am here. Speak to me. It is Nance."

But no sign of recognition came from the unconscious form upon the cot. As Nance continued to press the outstretched hand, Nurse Marion rose and walked over to the window, and looked out upon the world of snow beyond. Tumultuous thoughts surged suddenly through her mind as she saw Nance kneeling by the bed and listened to her wailing cry. What right had this girl to supplant her? Had she been all sufficient to Martin, and had he forgotten Beryl, to whom he had given his heart and hand? For the first time in years a revulsion of feeling swept upon her. She had been a fool to believe that Martin had remembered her. He cared only for Nance, and his first love had grown cold. Years of separation had done it, and what vain fancy had led her to imagine that he still cared for her? She saw it now as never before. She must get away from the place. But where should she go, with the rivers frozen and the land snow-locked on every side?

Those few moments had wrought a marvellous transformation in Nurse Marion's face. It was calm—terribly calm—when at last she went back to Martin's side. She was the professional nurse now, ready to do her duty to the utmost, but no more. She had other patients in the hospital to care for, and she busied herself with them during most of the day. She had little to say to the watchers by Martin's side, and they, occupied with their deep anxiety, did not notice her unusual silence. Then, when all her other tasks were done, she sat with Nance and Dick through the long hours of the night. She had to be doing something, so she brought her needle-work, and though her fingers were busy, and at times her head drooped, she hardly realised what she was doing.

Since he had been brought into the hospital Martin had not shown the least sign of consciousness. He had lain as one in a deep sleep. But as the night wore away, and the dawn of a new day was breaking he began to move, and then to toss restlessly upon the cot. At last he opened his eyes and stared vacantly around the room.

"Tim! Tim!" he called. "Are you cold? Here's my jacket. It'll keep you warm."

His eyes next roved to the watchers near by until they rested upon the nurse's face. He did not seem at all surprised to see her there.

"Beryl."

At that word the needle-work dropped from the nurse's hand, her face went white as death, though she uttered not a sound.

"Are the hymns all ready, Beryl?" Martin continued. "It's almost church time, and I can't wait any longer."

"He thinks you are Beryl," Nance whispered. But the nurse made no reply. She sat erect, rigid, with staring eyes fixed full upon the man before her.

A troubled expression now came into Martin's eyes, and his fingers moved over the blanket as if in search of something. "I can't find them," he murmured. "The bread—the wine—some one has hidden them. Ah, ah, here they are," and his fingers closed eagerly upon some imaginary objects. Then a semblance of a smile flickered about the corners of his mouth, and his voice was low and reverent as his lips moved—"Take—and eat—this—in remembrance—that Christ—died—for thee—and feed—on Him——"

His voice trailed off into silence, and for a while he lay very still. "Ah, ah!" he cried, starting suddenly up, while a fierce light glowed in his eyes, "I defy you! The Church is nothing to me, and I will live without it! Get out of my house, you impostor," he roared, looking now at Dick. "You come here to steal Nance from me! But you won't get her! No, by heavens! she shall never be yours! The Church! The Church! I don't care for the Church! It has cast me out. I will live without it! Get out, I say. Don't torture me! For God's sake, go!"

To say that the missionary was surprised at the remarks of this raving man is putting it too mildly. He was astounded. What could be the meaning of it all? he asked himself. Why did he refer to the hymns, repeat those words of the Communion Service, and speak so fiercely about the Church? Was it possible that this man had once been a clergyman? The idea came to him now with a startling intensity. In an instant there flashed into his mind Martin's peculiar actions ever since he had known him, his strange behaviour and fitful moods. Was this the reason, then, why this educated man had lived for long years in the wilderness? Had he been deposed by the Church in which he had once been a clergyman? Dick knew now that such must have been the case, and a feeling such as he had never before experienced came upon him. He sank into the chair he had recently vacated, and buried his face in his hands. He had at times heard of men who had left the Ministry through some misdemeanour, but never until now did he understand what it really meant. As he listened to Martin's ravings he comprehended something of the agony of mind which had been his through his long wilderness life.

And thus the three sat, watched, and waited, as the unconscious man tossed upon the cot. There was little that they could do except think. The missionary understood a little now of the past history of the man before him, while Nance knew more. But neither realised that Nurse Marion, sitting near with hands tightly clasped upon her lap, knew all, and yet remained silent.