For days the raging fever held Martin in its terrible grip. Never once was he conscious of his surroundings, and most trying was it for the patient watchers to listen to his wild ravings. Every night Tom came to the hospital to take his turn by the side of the sick man. In fact, he would have remained part of each day as well if he had been permitted to do so, and he always grumbled when he was ordered by Dick to go and get some sleep. Nurse Marion sat at times with Tom. She found it difficult to rest, as she did not know at what moment Martin might need more help than the miner could give.

One day she was sitting alone by the bed, with her needle-work, as usual, in her hands. The sufferer was still and to all appearance asleep. Sounds of the violin came from the outer room, where Nance was playing softly for the benefit of the few patients who were there. The strains brought a restful feeling into the nurse's heart, for it had been weeks since she had heard the sound of music. Presently her work dropped into her lap, and her hands remained idle. Her eyes gazed off through the window before her, though she saw nothing.

She was startled from her reverie by a light touch upon her hand. Glancing down, great was her surprise to see Martin looking intently into her face. In his eyes was the light of reason, mingled with surprise. The nurse was on her feet in an instant, bending over the cot.

"Hush," she soothed, as if Martin were a child awaking from sleep. "Don't speak now."

"I must," Martin feebly breathed. "Are you Beryl? I woke, and thought I was dreaming, and so I touched your hand to be sure."

"Yes, I am Beryl," was the reply. "But you must not talk any more. You are very weak."

With a deep sigh, whether of regret or contentment the nurse could not tell, Martin closed his eyes, and in a few moments passed into a restful and a natural sleep. Nurse Marion stood very still for a while watching him. Just what her thoughts were she alone knew, but her eyes were moist as she presently turned and walked softly into the large ward outside.

As the days passed Martin rapidly improved, and at length he was able to sit up. The miners came often to see him, for they all held him in high regard for what he had done for Tim. But Martin was never so happy as when Beryl was in the room. Neither had once mentioned the days years ago, and to outward eyes they were friends and nothing more. But little did people realise what was taking place in the hearts of both patient and nurse alike. Beryl was ever on her guard lest she should let slip the slightest word which might betray her inmost feelings. The bitterness of that day when Nance had first knelt by the cot had passed away. But she did not know what Martin thought of her, though at times she found his eyes fixed upon her in a puzzled way.

Martin, in fact, did not know what to make of Beryl's quiet constrained manner. If she had expressed surprise, or even upbraided him, he could have understood it. But she never alluded to the past. She waited upon him, and talked about ordinary things, but that was all. This estrangement was hard for him to endure. He began to feel that she no longer cared for him. She knew what he had done, and so was determined to treat him as any other patient. Such was the situation between the two. Each believed that the other did not care, and so both made every effort not to reveal the real feelings enshrined within their hearts.

One bright afternoon Nance and Dick crossed over the river to the lonely house to bring back some books for the Reading Room. Beryl watched them as they sped down to the river on their show-shoes—for there was no path in the deep snow. A sigh escaped her lips as she saw how happy they were. Laughingly they waved their hands to her as they reached the river, and saw her still at the window. What perfect understanding there is between them, she mused. Could any two people be more suited to each other than they?

She remained gazing after them for a while, and then went into the room where Martin was sitting. She found him near the window facing the river. His eyes were filled with an inexpressible sadness as they followed Nance and Dick until they reached the log building beyond. Beryl stood watching him for a few heart beats, and then moved softly to his side. But Martin did not look up. Instead, his whole body drooped, his head bent forward, and he buried his face in his hands as if trying to shut out something from his view.

"What is it?" Beryl asked, in a voice tremulous with emotion. "Are you not feeling well? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Beryl," and Martin lifted his face, which was now drawn and haggard.

"Yes—Martin," was the faint reply.

"Sit down, Beryl. There, that's better."'

A deep silence now reigned in the room. Martin's gaze wandered out through the window, but the nurse saw nothing. Neither did she hear anything, except the wild beating of her own heart. She longed to do something to comfort the visibly distressed man nearby. But she felt powerless, and no words could she utter.

"Why must I suffer like this, Beryl?" burst at last from Martin's lips. "There, there!" he cried, lifting a thin warning hand. "Don't speak until I am through. I know why I suffer. It's just, and what else could I expect. But, my God! is there to be no end? Is this suffering of mind—this hell, never to cease? Why did they not let me die out there in the snow?"

"Hush, hush! Martin," and Beryl rose to her feet, and laid her hand lightly upon his shoulder. "Don't talk that way! I can't stand it!"

"I must talk. Don't try to stop me. Did you see them going over the river?" he asked. "How happy they are. I am nothing to Nance now. Dick is everything, and I am only in the way. What have I to live for?"

These words caused Beryl to straighten up suddenly. The trembling emotion which had possessed her departed, leaving her very white and calm. Then it was Nance he alone cared for, she told herself. Of her only he thought. Yes, she knew now, and why had she expected anything else?

"Beryl," Martin continued, after a pause, "do you see how happy they are? They are everything to each other. We, too, might have been as happy—but—but for my——How can you look at me, or speak to me, Beryl? You know what I did, and what an outcast I am to-day from God and the Church. Is there any one in the whole world so vile as I?"

"But you have atoned for the past," Beryl soothed. "Think of what you have done."

"Done! Done! Good Lord! what have I done that can ever merit forgiveness from an avenging God? Is there any pardon for one who disgraced his sacred office, broke his parents' hearts, and denounced his Church? Men may talk lightly of sin. But they know not what they are saying, nor its terrible consequences. Nothing can wipe out such a stain as mine, which is so great. There is murder on my hands!"

"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin," Beryl gently quoted, with tears now streaming down her cheeks. "Don't you, oh, don't you believe it?"

"I believe it, but I don't feel it. It doesn't give me peace. What can wash away my sins, which are so great?"

"'If any man sin we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ, the righteous, and He is the propitiation for our sins,'" Beryl once more quoted.

"Ah, ah," and Martin slightly raised his head. "There is comfort in those words. 'If any man sin,' and 'Jesus' blood cleanseth us from all sin,' Beryl," and he now looked up full into her face. "You know how great are my sins, do you really think that they can ever be forgiven?"

Beryl at once leaned forward and caught his right hand in hers. "Martin," she cried, "I forgave you long ago, and will not He, whose love and mercy are so great, be more ready to forgive?"

Into Martin's eyes came an expression of surprise, mingled with hope.

"Do you mean it, Beryl?" he asked, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "That you forgive me? I can't believe it!"

"Yes, yes; it's true. I forgave you long ago. Even when every one denounced you I still believed in you."

"Is it possible? Is it possible?" and Martin gazed absently out of the window. "What reason had you to forgive me?"

"Perhaps there was none," Beryl gently replied. "When a woman loves she doesn't seek for a reason; she never thinks of it. True love is of the heart, and not of the head."

"And I believed that you had forgotten!" Martin murmured.

"So you thought of me—sometimes, then?" Beryl questioned.

"Thought of you!" Martin passionately cried, seizing both of her hands in his. "Day and night during those long terrible years you were never out of my mind. But for the thought of you I would not be here to-day."

He paused suddenly, and the woman standing by his side could feel his form tremble as if shaken by some violent emotion.

"Beryl," came at last low and tense from his lips, "is it too late? You know what I mean. Do you care enough for me to—to——"

"To take up life where we laid it down years ago? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, that's it, Beryl. Oh, can we?"

"What is there to hinder?" was the quiet response. "Why should we be separated any longer when we mean so much to each other?"

The only reply Martin made was to reach out and enfold Beryl in his arms as she sank into the chair by his side. Her face was close to his, and their lips met. At last the struggle, doubt, and uncertainty were ended. A peace such as they had not known for years came into their hearts. Their lives, like two turbulent streams long parted, were at last reunited, to flow on as one, strong and deep.

For over an hour they sat and talked about the future. Time was as nothing to them now, and they were surprised when the door opened and Nance and Dick entered. Beryl rose instantly to her feet, while a flush mantled her cheeks and brow. But Nance did not notice her agitation, so engrossed was she with her own affairs. Hurrying across the room, she threw her arms about the nurse's neck, and gave her an affectionate kiss. She then knelt by Martin's side, and looked up into his face.

"Daddy, oh, daddy!" she cried, "I am so happy!" Then words failed her, and she hid her blushing face in her hands.

Dick, who had been standing in the middle of the room, now came forward, and stood before Martin. "May I have her?" he simply asked. "Nance has promised to be my wife if you will give your consent."

For a few heart beats there was a tense silence, while Martin sat gazing off into space. He was thinking of the past, and of a little child he had rescued from the Indians on the bank of the Mackenzie River years before. Presently his eyes sought those of the young man before him.

"Do you know that Nance is not my child?" he asked in a hesitating voice. "I do not even know her parents' names."

"Yes, I know," Dick replied. "But that doesn't make any difference."

"If you had asked me for Nance a month, nay, even an hour ago," Martin continued, "I should have refused you. She was all I had in the world. But now it is different. You may have her, for I have one to take her place. I have found my Beryl. She has come back to me."

At these words Nance sprang to her feet, and looked eagerly and curiously around the room. Seeing only the nurse standing there with a happy smile upon her face, she was much puzzled, and turned to Martin for an explanation.

"Oh, daddy!" she exclaimed, "how you startled me! What did you mean by saying that Beryl had come back?"

"And so she has, dear. This is my long lost Beryl you see before you."

For an instant only Nance stood there, her eyes filled with wonder. Then they brightened, with complete understanding, and with a glad cry she sprang toward the nurse, who caught her in her arms, and showered kisses upon the fair, fresh face turned up to hers.

During the remainder of the afternoon all was excitement within that little room. There was so much to talk about that it was supper time before they were half through. While Beryl and Nance were preparing the simple repast the two men discussed plans for the future.

"You must stay right here," Dick told Martin. "We can work so much better together."

"But only as a helper," was the low reply. "Remember I am an outcast, and——"

"Hush," Dick interrupted, "don't speak of that again. Let the past be buried forever."

Scarcely had the four sat down to supper ere a knock sounded upon the door. When it was opened Tom and Old Dad entered. They were given a hearty welcome, and room was made for them at the table. Soon the whole story was told, and nothing would do the visitors but they must rise and grasp the hands of the happy couples, and wish them much joy. Tom was so excited that he could eat but little, and for once his tongue seemed tied. When the meal was ended he pushed back from the table, and ran his fingers thoughtfully through his hair.

"If I only had a smoke," he remarked, "it 'ud certainly relieve my feelin's."

"Smoke to your heart's content," Beryl laughingly replied.

"What! Here?"

"Yes. Make yourself perfectly at home."

"I guess a game of chess would relieve my feelin's," and Dad looked eagerly into Nance's face as he spoke. "D'ye feel equal fer the battle after all this excitement?"

"Why, yes," was the cheerful response. "Just as soon as these dishes are washed we shall have a game."

What an evening that was on the bank of the Quaska River in that room in the hospital. Happiness reigned supreme, for the black clouds had all disappeared. When the game was ended they talked about the visit which would be made next summer to the great world outside of which Nance had heard so much, but had never seen. Then the two newly-wedded couples would return to carry on the work in the place which was so dear to their hearts.

"An' we'll be here to give yez a house-warmin', hey, Dad?" Tom exclaimed, with joy depicted upon his honest, rugged face.

"Sure thing," was the reply. "An' mebbe ye'll git a few new wrinkles at chess," he slyly added, turning to Nance, at which they all laughed.

Then just before they parted for the night, Martin asked for his violin. Nance brought hers, too, and together they played, the first time in months. There were no sad wailing notes now, but only such music as wells freely from hearts full of love, gratitude, and happiness.

THE END