sick for you, like you are my own boy, like I am your own mother. I
hate see no sun in your face. I think I not good mother to you; if
I was good mother I would give you your child; make the sun come in
your face. To-day I make last fight to keep the child. She's mine so
long, I want her till I die. Then somet'ing in my heart say, 'He's
like son to you, as if he your own boy; make him glad--happy. Oh,
ver' glad! Be like his own mother. Find him his baby.'"

"Bless the mother heart of her!" growled the big foreman, frowning
to keep his face from twitching.

It was twilight when they mounted the horses one of the men had
brought up for them to ride home on, Wingate with his treasure-child
hugged tightly in his arms. Words were powerless to thank the woman
who had saved half his world for him. His voice choked when he
tried, but she understood, and her woman's heart was very, very
full.

Just as they reached the rim of the canyon Wingate turned and
looked back. His arms tightened about little Margie as his eyes
rested on Catharine--as once before she was standing in the
doorway, alone; alone, and above and about her were the purple
shadows, the awful solitude of Crow's Nest Mountain.

"Brown!" he called. "Hold on, Brown! I can't do it! I can't leave
her like that!"

He wheeled his horse about and, plunging back through the snow,
rode again to her door. Her eyes radiated as she looked at him.
Years had been wiped from his face since the morning. He was a