his nice girl friends at high school. Yet Mrs. Morton had been married a
good many years, for just behind her stood her daughter, Julia, a girl of
twelve, waiting her turn to thank Charley.

But girlish though the ranger's wife appeared, Charley did not need to be
told that she was not of the weeping, hysterical sort. On every hand were
evidences of efficiency and foresight. A fire was evidently burning
briskly in the stove, and kettles of water, presumably heated in case of
need, were steaming on the range, easily seen through the open kitchen
door. In the sick-room were evidences of the same sort of forethought.
Everything that the house possessed that could possibly be useful in
treating the ranger had been assembled in handy little piles. This must
have been done before the ranger reached home, for most of the piles were
untouched.

The ranger was resting comfortably in bed, though his arm was badly
swollen and his face was distorted with pain. At sight of Charley his
countenance lighted up. He reached out his left arm and wrung Charley's
hand until the lad winced.

"The doctor says I'll pull through this all right, though I'll have a
painful time of it," said the ranger, "and he told the truth, at least as
far as the pain is concerned. But the pain's nothing. The thing that
counts is the fact that I am safe at home. I owe it to you, Charley, and
you may be sure I'll never forget."

That was as much as the ranger, reticent, hating any display of emotion,
quiet like most men of the woods, could bring himself to say. But Charley
knew that it meant volumes. He tried to reply, but found himself also
suffering from a strange embarrassment. So Charley said good-bye to the