It was Saturday evening, three days after Tessibel Skinner had been churched from Hayt's Chapel. The night wind called forth moaning complaints from the willow trees. The rasping of their bare limbs against the tin roof of the cottage did not disturb Daddy Skinner struggling for breath in the room below. All the familiar night-noises kept a death vigil with the squatter girl.

A sound outside made her lift her head. Kennedy's brindle bull was scratching to come in. She rose, went to the door and opened it. Pete ambled over the threshold and curled down by the stove.

"Anythin' the matter, brat?" whispered Andy.

"No, I were lettin' in the dog," explained Tess, resuming her seat beside Daddy Skinner who was stretched, dying, on her cot. She had moved him from the back room into the warm kitchen, and at that moment he was sleeping restlessly. The sight of his working face brought a quick hand to Tessibel's lips, and her white teeth set deeply into the upraised knuckles to help stifle the groans. Every trouble of her own sank into insignificance before the calamity facing her. Many times Tess had viewed death afar off, but not until the past three days had it threatened her own loved ones. In that hour she was experiencing the extremity of sorrow, and each aching nerve in her body seemed to possess a stabbing volition of its own, for again and again the torturing points stung her flesh like whips.

For three long days she had managed somehow to uphold the dear, dying father. No word had come from Deforrest Young, and Tess felt sure he had returned twenty-four hours before. Perhaps Waldstricker had robbed her of her dearest friend. Bitterly pained, the girl realized what the loss would mean to her. Yet she had no censure in her heart for Deforrest Young; indeed no bitterness for Frederick Graves; only a deep, deep gratitude to the one, and a great, overwhelming love for the other. And while thinking of what an empty void her life was becoming, Tess saw her father's head turn and his lids lift heavily.

"Daddy!" she murmured, but if he heard, he did not heed. He was gazing steadily at something over and beyond her head, and then he smiled at it. In superstitious dread, the squatter girl glanced where the faded eyes were directed. What had he seen? A face, perhaps, or the passing shade that always haunted a squatter shanty when some one was dying, but then, many times she, too, had seen faces in the rafters up there among the dry nets.

"My pretty brat," were the words that brought her startled eyes back to her father. Her throat filling with heavy sobs, she went over and kissed him stormily. The horny, stiff fingers gathered a few of her red curls and drew them slowly upward until parched lips touched them, while tears stole from under withered lids, and Tess cried out in sharp anguish.

"Daddy Skinner, I can't live without ye!" she moaned, cupping his face with her hands. "Take Tessibel with ye; take 'er, please!"

She cuddled at his side, lifted one of his heavy arms and put it around her in pleading anguish. Just then it seemed as if it would put off the approach of death if she insisted on staying within the broad grasp of Daddy Skinner's arms.

She was wiping away his tears, tenderly touching the dying face with faltering fingers.

"I saw yer ma," choked Skinner thickly, and he smiled again.

Tess turned her head, a dreadful sinking in her soul. Her mother's face, then, was what Daddy had seen away off up there among the rafters. The mother who had died so long ago had come after her dear one. Drawing one tense set of fingers backward across her cheek, Tess stood up quickly. Perhaps—perhaps—

She threw a glance at the ceiling. Daddy Skinner had seen her mother. They were going away together. If they would but take her with them! She turned unsteadily to go she knew not where, but the sound of her father's voice brought her quickly back.

"Brat," he faltered, "lean down—I want to tell ye somethin'."

Tess bent her ear close to the thick blue lips.

"I air here, Daddy! Tess air here," she mourned.

Long, laboring breaths moved the red curls hanging about the girl's rigid face.

"I said as how I air here, Daddy," she murmured again, touching him.

But Daddy Skinner was once more gazing into the dark rafters, his jaws apart, the greyness of death settling about his mouth.

"Daddy! Daddy!" screamed Tess. "Don't look like that! Don't go away—oh, Daddy, please!... Andy! Andy!"

The dwarf slipped down the ladder, and dropped at the side of the bed. The dog roused from his nap by the stove was already there, nuzzling his tawny head against his distressed friend, while he made inarticulate sounds of sympathy in his deep throat.

"Pal Skinner!" Andy cried, white with apprehension. "Give us a word, old horse."

Placing his hand upon Pete's collar, the dwarf drew him, with a word of command, to the floor beside him.

The dying fisherman looked from his prison friend to his daughter. He lifted a limp hand, and it rested upon the girl's bowed head. The other he dropped heavily on Andy Bishop's shoulder. It was as if he were giving to them both his parting benediction. In mechanical sequence the dwarf counted the dying man's mouth open and shut five times before the struggling voice came forth.

"I were goin' to say somethin' to ye, Tess," he then gasped, moistening his lips. "Gimme a—drink—of water."

Andy held the cup while Orn drank. He struggled to swallow, belching forth hot breath.

"When I air gone, brat dear," he articulated huskily, "stay in the shanty an' take care of Andy till there ain't no more danger fer 'im. Ye'll promise me, Tess?"

She enclosed his hand in hers and held it to her lips.

"I were a wantin' to go with you and Mummy, Daddy," she sobbed. "I air always lonely in the shanty without ye—but if ye say, 'Stay with Andy,' then I stays."

"That air what I says, brat, darlin'," panted Skinner.

Then for many minutes he was lost in the terrible struggle of strong life against the grip of death. Tess wound her arms about his neck and lifted the great head to her breast. She stared at his changing face as at an advancing ghost.

He seemed to be slipping slowly into the great beyond, and she was powerless to hold him back.

How many times had Daddy Skinner spoken of dying! How many times had she heard him agree with Andy that death was better than life any day! But at those times she had beaten back the muttered words of her father and the dwarf. Ah, in those days, death had been far away, kept off by happiness unsurpassed!

"It air hard fer some folks to die," wailed the fisherman. "An' so easy fer uthers. Me—now me—Oh, God, oh, brat-love, let me go! I hurt so! I hurt awful—let me go!"

The heart of the tortured, sobbing girl seemed to be bursting from its pain and suspense. Her beloved father wanted to go away—to follow the wraith mother beckoning from the rafters. How could she open her arms and allow him to leave her alone in the shanty!

"Help me, brat-love," sighed Daddy Skinner once more. "Help yer old sick daddy!"

Help him! How could she? Hitherto Tessibel's faith had loyally responded to every demand upon her. But she couldn't help her daddy die! She knew not how! Then, as if drawn by some invisible power, her eyes lifted, piercing the shadows among the time-dried nets. And there, for one small moment, she saw—she saw a face, a young, girlish face, infinitely sweet, smiling down upon her.

"It air the Mummy!" she cried, her voice vibrant with love. "I air goin' to help 'im, darlin'."

Buoyantly her mind gripped the old-time faith, the redoubtable faith that had opened wide Auburn Prison, that had restored to her arms this same adored father. She had helped him then—and oh, to help him now! His great cry, "God, Tessibel, let me be goin'!" rang in her ears. Her gaze was glued to his face. Terror and pain were strangling his throat until his eyes grew death-dark in the struggle. Tessibel lifted her ashen face, wildly working in entreaty. Oh, for a little faith! Faith the size of a grain of mustard seed! And Daddy Skinner would be gone to that place beyond the clouds and the blue, where suffering is not. Did he, could he, believe? Did she, could she, believe, too? Then in a blinding flash, she remembered the mysterious dawning of her own faith. Enduring sublime suffering, she bent once more and drew her father's heavy head to her breast.

"Daddy! Darlin' old, good Daddy, look at yer dear brat, an' listen to 'er."

"I air a listenin', my girl," he said between set teeth. She put her head directly in line with her father's vision.

"Look at me, Daddy," she craved tremulously, "an' listen to me. Can't ye remember how ye came back from Auburn like the innercent man ye were?"

"Yep," whispered Skinner.

"'Twere the Christ on the cross helped ye, Daddy. Ye air wishin' to go away now with my mummy, huh?"

"Yep," groaned Skinner. "God, aw kind, merciful God, let me go!"

Tess laid him gently back on the pillow. A bright light flashed into her soul. The red in her eyes turning almost to black.

"Then go, my darlin'! Go, Daddy," she moaned, rising and looking upward. "Take 'im, Mummy, little love-mummy, take 'im back to Heaven with ye."

Inspired by that smiling face in the rafters, Tessibel opened her lips and began to sing,

"Rescue the Perishin';
Care for the Dyin'."

It was a glorious strain that echoed and reechoed around and around the shanty kitchen. It gathered within its heavenly power the moaning of the wind and the haunting noises of the tin-rusted roof. Even the weeping willows, bowing their mournful heads in sympathy, could no longer be heard in their endless chant.

Strangely stirred, Pete struggled up, disregarding the dwarf's desire to detain him. He placed his forefeet on the edge of the bed, lifting his head to the girl's shoulder. Responsive to the pressure of his body, she threw her arm around him. Gravely the golden eyes of the great dog regarded his suffering master on the cot as the tender melody of the song continued to fill the shanty.

Tessibel ever afterwards remembered Daddy Skinner's eyes as for those last few moments he lay looking at her. They were kindly, tender, smiling, as he watched her lips moving in the song he'd always loved to hear her sing.

He seemed to realize that she was singing him into the very presence of the Savior of the world—into the presence of Him who was leading Tessibel Skinner and her squatter father through their garden of Gethsemane.

"Rescue the Perishin';
Care for the Dyin'."

On and on she sang, and on and on the dying man gropingly felt his way to Eternity. Sometimes he smiled at her; sometimes at the wraith in the rafters. But not for one moment did the voice of the little singer cease its insistent cry for a complete rescue.

The dwarf was silent, his shining face reflecting the peace and security of which the squatter girl sang.

"Rescue the Perishin';
Care for the Dyin'."

The beautiful voice did not falter. Suddenly the powerful lungs of the fisherman gathered in one long, last breath, and when it came forth to meet Tessibel's song, the broad shoulders dropped back, the chest receded, the smile faded from the gray eyes—and Daddy Skinner was dead.

He had died listening to those appealing, melodious words, "Rescue the Perishin'; Care for the Dyin'." That sudden collapsing change in the gaunt figure seemed to freeze the very song on Tessibel's lips. Her voice trailed to a limp wail, as if an icy hand had caught her throat. Silence succeeded silence. Even the storm seemed for an instant to still its raging roar, then Pete threw back his head and howled his grief. As his resonant cries filled the shack and mingled with the turmoil of the elements, Tess clung to the dog, staring with horrified eyes at the huge beloved form crushed and crumpled upon the cot. Death had come and gone. The mystery in the shadowy rafters had taken Daddy Skinner away.

The dwarf raised his head and looked at Tess. Slowly he leaned over and pressed his lips to Orn Skinner's brow, and as he rose, he lifted the girl's rigid arm from the tawny back and seized the dog by the collar to quiet him.

Then came one of those unthinkable, weird cries, a nightmarish cry from the girl's throat, and—as God tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb, so in Divine pity he covered Tess of the Storm Country with mental oblivion.