A Widening Horizon
"I'm Dr. Starr," the man introduced himself. "It's turning mighty cold
again. We only hit the high places after I got on Stefan's toboggan, I
can tell you. How the man kept up with his team I can't tell you, but
he ran all the way."
He threw off his heavy coat and turned to the bunk.
"Now let's see what we've got here," he said.
The two women were scanning his face, holding their breaths, but Mrs.
Papineau had the lamp and held it so as to cast some light on Hugo.
The doctor's expression, however, was quite inscrutable.
"Your husband?" he asked the girl, who shook her head. "Well, perhaps
it's a good thing he's not. Put a lot of water to boil on the stove,
please. Can't you find another lamp here--this one doesn't give much
light?"
There was no lamp but they found a package of candles which were soon
flickering on the table, stuck in the necks of bottles. The doctor was
pulling a lot of things out of his bag, coolly. To Madge it seemed
queer that he could be so unaffected by what he saw. Presently he went
to work, after baring the injured shoulder.
After it was all over it seemed to the girl like some dreadful
nightmare. After just one keen glance the doctor had probably decided
that her young hands would afford him the better help. And so she had
been obliged to remain at his side and look upon the sinewy shoulder
and the arm that had been laid bare, and at the angry and inflamed
wound which had been flooded with iodine. And then had come the
picking up of shining instruments just taken out of one of the boiling
vessels. Her teeth left imprints on her lips and she felt that she was
surely going to stagger and fall as the man made long slashing
incisions. From them he took out a piece of cloth and a bullet that
had been flattened against the bone. After this there was a lot more
disinfecting and the placing of red tubes of rubber deep down in the
wound, which was finally covered with a large dressing. But it was
only after this was all finished that Madge dropped on a stool,
feeling sick and shaken.
"Oh, you're not such a very bad soldier, after all," commented the
doctor, quietly, as he gathered up his instruments to clean and boil
them again. "I can't say that I'm optimistic about this case--but
perhaps you don't quite understand such big words. I mean that I
haven't any great hopes for this lad, but at least he has some little
chance now. There was none whatever before. Of course it depends a lot
on the nursing he gets. If I thought for a moment that he could stand
the trip I'd take him away with me, but that's out of the question."
Then he turned to Stefan.
"I'll have to catch the first freight back in the morning, my man.
Will you take me to Carcajou in good time? I can't afford to miss it.
Too many needing me just now east of here!"
"Ay, I take you--if Hugo he no worse. But if tings is goin' wrong,
I'll let Papineau do it. I--I can't leaf no more. Vhen I starts from
here I tank I can't stand it a moment--but vhen I get off on de road,
I gets grazy to come back. I--I don't know vhat I vants!"
The doctor looked at him curiously, appreciating the depth of the
man's emotion and gauging the strength of the superb creature he was.
"I won't let you take me if it isn't safe," he told him, and turned to
his patient again.
"Do you expect to stay up all night?" he suddenly asked the girl.
"I--I am anxious to, if I can be of the slightest help."
"One can never tell," he replied. "I might be glad to have you with
me. You don't lose your head--and you're efficient."
Presently Papineau arrived with his dogs and took his wife home. The
good lady had looked upon the doctor's cutting with profound disfavor.
A suggestion of hers about herbs had been treated with scant respect.
Before leaving she spoke to Madge.
"I stay h'all night too--but it ain't no good, because if he lif
to-morrow night den you go sleep an' I stay 'ere. Before I go to bed I
prays moch. I--I 'opes he lif through de night--heem no more bad as
heem was, anyvays, an' dat someting."
So they went away sorrowfully, to the little new-born calf and the
babies and the children who needed them, and Stefan sat on the floor
with his back to the wall, while Maigan snuggled up against him.
Dr. Starr remained all night, sometimes dozing a little on his chair,
with the ability of the man often called at night to take little
snatches of sleep here and there, but Madge was at all times wide
awake. Some time after midnight Hugo appeared to be sleeping quietly.
The valuable candles had been extinguished, of course, but the little
lamp was burning, shaded on one side by a piece of birch bark. Stefan
had gradually curled up on the floor, under the table, where he was
out of the way, and was snoring lustily. In the morning, doubtless, he
would most honestly insist that he had not slept an instant. Out of
doors the Swede's dogs had dug holes in the snow and, with sensitive
noses covered by their bushy tails, were awaiting in slumber the next
call from their master. The great falls kept up their moan and the
trees swayed and cracked. A wind-borne branch, falling on the roof,
made a sudden racket that was startling.
At frequent intervals Madge rose and gave Hugo some water, for which
he always seemed grateful, or adjusted the pillow beneath his head.
Once, when she sat down again, she saw the doctor's eyes fixed upon
her, gravely.
"You have the necessary instinct," he told her, "and the patience and
perseverance. I don't know what your plans may be for the future, but
you would make a good nurse."
Madge shrugged her shoulders, the tiniest bit. She didn't know. It
didn't matter what she was fit for. The world so far had been a
failure. The only important thing before her now was to do her best to
help pull the sick man out of the jaws of death, if it could possibly
be done. She sat down again, and after a time that seemed like an age
the utter blackness without began to turn to gray and, in spite of the
constantly replenished stove, the chill of the early morning struck
deep into her. As the doctor looked at his watch she rose and began to
make tea, which comforted them.
"Do you expect to keep on looking after this man?" the doctor asked
her, abruptly, between two mouthfuls.
"Yes, of course, if I may," she answered.
"I should say that you will simply have to, if his life is to be
saved, or at least if he's to have a fair chance. I shall be compelled
to go pretty soon. As it is I won't get back home before noon and
there are several bad cases I must see to-day. I'll return the day
after to-morrow; it's the best I can do, for it is absolutely
impossible for me to remain here. Now just listen to me very carefully
while I give you the necessary directions. I think I'd better write
some of them out so that you will be sure not to forget them. See if
you can find me a bit of paper somewhere."
On one of the shelves there was a small homemade desk in which she
rummaged. She found a number of loose bits of paper, some of them
scribbled over in pencil and others with ink. They were apparently
accounts, notes concerning various supplies and a few letters from
various places. Finding a clean sheet she brought it to the doctor who
rapidly wrote at length upon it. At this moment Stefan awoke, with a
portentous yawn, but a second later he had leaped to his feet and was
scanning their faces anxiously.
"I tank mebbe I doze for a moment," he informed them. "How is Hugo
gettin' long?"
"For the present he looks to me somewhat better," answered the doctor.
"There doesn't seem to be any immediate danger, and I'll have to start
back in a few minutes. We've had a cup of tea, but you'd better make
some breakfast ready."
Stefan bestirred himself and presently a potful of rolled oats was
being stirred carefully for fear of burning, and bacon was sputtering
in the pan. The kettle was singing again and Madge was cutting slices
from a loaf left by Mrs. Papineau. The three sat down to the table and
ate hungrily, abundantly, as people have to who make stern demands
upon their vitality.
The doctor made a few more remarks about the treatment of his patient.
He had carefully laid on the table the little tablets of medicine, the
bottle containing an antiseptic, the cotton and gauze that must be
used to renew the dressing. Then he went out, breathing deeply of the
sharp and aromatic air, and a moment later he and Stefan were gone,
the latter promising to return at once, with a few needed supplies
from the store. Madge was alone now with Hugo, who was again sleeping
quietly. She read over the doctor's directions carefully while she
stood by the little window, as the lamp had been extinguished.
A few minutes later she decided to place the paper in the little desk
again, for safe-keeping. Without the slightest curiosity her eyes fell
again upon some of the writing on loose sheets. But presently she was
staring at it hard as a strong conviction made its way into her brain.
After this she went to the other shelf where some books had been
placed and opened one of them, and then another. On the flyleaf was
written, in bold characters, "Hugo Ennis." The writing was exactly the
same as that which appeared on the scattered leaves, for she compared
them carefully.
"There can be no doubt--he never wrote those letters," she decided.
"But--but I knew very well he couldn't have written them. It--it isn't
like him."
The idea came again that he could have obtained some one to write for
him, but it was immediately cast aside. The man would not engage in
dirty work himself--far less would he get others to do it for him.
She--she had abused and insulted him--called him a liar, as far as she
could remember, and again her face felt hot and burning.
Once more she sat down by the bunk, after she had given Maigan a big
feed of oats, with a small remnant of the bacon grease. She felt
humbled now, as if her accusations constituted some unforgivable,
despicable sin. This man had never intended to do her the slightest
harm. He really never knew that she was coming. And through her stupid
clumsiness his life was now ebbing. The doctor's long words sounded
dreadfully in her ears: general sepsis, blood poisoning, a system
overwhelmed by the toxines of virulent microbes; they reverberated in
her ears like so many sentences of death. Was there any hope that this
outflowing life would ever turn in its course and return like an
incoming tide? Would she again see him able to lift up his head, to
speak in words no longer dictated by the vagaries of delirium? She
would give anything to be able to ask his pardon humbly after his mind
cleared again. Oh, it was unthinkable that he should die, that the end
might be coming soon, and that she must go forth with that unspeakable
load of misery in her heart.
Maigan restlessly kept on coming to her and placing his head in her
lap, as if seeking comfort. Once she bent over and put her cheek
against his jaw and furry ear. He was a companion in misery.
When she lifted up her head again to stare once more at the sufferer,
with eyes heavily ringed with black, he slowly opened his own and
looked at her vaguely, for at first there was not the slightest sign
of recognition in them. Presently, however, the girl saw something
that looked like a faint smile.
"How--how long have I been asleep?" he asked, weakly. "And have--have
you been here all the time?"
She nodded, conscious that her heart was now beating with excitement,
and his eyes closed again. But his hand had sought the one she had
laid on the blanket and rested on it, for a few moments. It was the
ever-recurring call of the man for the comfort of a woman's touch, for
the protection his strength gathers from her weakness.
"You--you're ever so good and kind," he said again, in a low hoarse
voice, after which he kept still again, for the longest time.
In spite of the gray pall of clouds over the sky and the complaining
of the gale-swept tops of the great trees, in spite of the vast dull
roar of the great falls, that had seemed a dirge, a ray of cheer had
entered the little shack. It had seemed to her like such a paltry and
mean excuse for a dwelling, when she had first seen it, and had been
so thoroughly in keeping with the sordid nature she had at once
attributed to this man whom she believed to have brought her there
with amazing lies. But now, in some way, it had become a link, and the
only one, that still attached her a little to the world. It appeared
to her like the one place where she had been able to obtain a little
rest from her miserable thoughts. Indeed, it had now become infinitely
desirable. If the man could have stood up again and greeted her it
would have become a haven of unspeakable comfort, since she would
realize that for once her efforts had not been in vain, and that she
had helped bring him back to life. But of course she knew that she
must leave it soon, that whether he died or recovered, the only trail
she could follow would be one that would lead to the banks of the
Roaring River, where the big air holes were. And yet, so strongly is
hope implanted in the human heart, this termination of her adventure
seemed to have receded into a dimmer future, like the knowledge which
we have that some day all must die but which we consider pertains only
to some vague and distant period that we shall not reach for a long
time.
Hugo was sleeping quietly now and the girl's hand upon his pulse
detected a feeble and swift flowing of the blood-current which, in
spite of its weakness, was an improvement. But the great thing was
that another day had come and he was still living, and his breathing
came quietly. If--if she had loved the man, she never would have been
able to go through all this without a breaking down of her little
strength. As Stefan had said, and as Mrs. Papineau had also intimated,
it was fortunate for her that she did not love him. Indeed, it was
ever so much better. She was glad indeed that he had recognized and
praised her, and then his voice had never expressed the slightest sign
of reproach. She was happy that he had found comfort in her presence
beside his couch and--and had been able to smile at her.
Madge opened the door to let Maigan out. The air was full of feathery
masses of snow blown from treetops. Sheltered as she was from the
wind, the cold was no longer so penetrating. In the east the gray was
tinted through the agency of long rifts in which dull shades of red
broke through and were reflected even upon the white at her feet. It
was not a cheery world just then, since the sun did not shine and the
great fronds of evergreens loomed very dark, but the vastness of the
wooded valley sloping down beneath her and stretching beyond the
limits of her vision impressed her with a sense of greatness and of
power. It was a tremendously big, strong and inexorable world, in
which was being fought the unending and apparently unjust battle of
the mighty against the weak, of the wolves and lynxes against the deer
and hares, of a myriad furred and sharp-fanged things against the
feebler and defenseless things of the forest. But also it was a world
capable of bringing forth majestic things; able and willing to reward
toil; in which, despite all of nature's unceasing cruelty, there could
reign happiness and the accomplishment of a heart's desire.
All this was not clearly shaped in Madge's mind. She was merely
undergoing a vague and potent influence that penetrated her very soul.
She closed the door again very softly, and when she sat again it was
with a strange feeling of contentment, or at any rate a surcease of
bitter thoughts, which affected her gently, like the heat of the
little stove.
Maigan soon scratched at the door again, and through the frosted glass
Madge saw Mrs. Papineau approaching. She was looking rather tired and
dismal. It was evident, from her panting, that she had hurried, but
now she was coming very slowly, as if afraid to hear bad news. But
when she finally came in and looked at Hugo, her fat face took on some
of its wonted cheerfulness.
"Heem no look so bad now," she asserted. "Who know? Mebbe get all
right again, eh? What Docteur Starr heem say before he go?"
Madge was compelled to give her a long account of how the night had
passed and to describe every move and relate every word of the
doctor.
"Dat's good," approved Mrs. Papineau. "Now you go to our 'ouse an' get
to bed an' 'ave sleep. If de children make noise tell 'em I slap 'em
plenty ven I get back, sure. You need bad for to sleep--h'eyes look
tired an' red."
She explained that Papineau had been obliged to go off after some
traps that were not very far away, and would return by midday. She
insisted upon the need of Madge to impress the children with the
virtues of silence. They had already been informed that if they did
not keep still when the lady returned they would be given to the
_loup-garou_ and other mythical and traditional terrors of _habitant_
childhood.
"Me stay 'ere all day. Den you come back an' stay de night, if you
lak'. You tell me vat I do."
The good lady found her endeavors useless, however. Hadn't the doctor
said that incessant care might perhaps, with luck, bring about a
recovery? And Hugo had been better--he had spoken--he might speak
again and want something she might get him. Moreover, the dressing was
to be changed very soon and the drainage tubes were to be flushed out
once in so often with the solution the doctor had left. To have gone
away then would have been desertion; she never entertained the thought
for an instant.
Hence she attended to these things, in the presence of Mrs. Papineau,
who looked quite awed at the proceedings. Generally the man seemed
quite unconscious of what she did, and there was little complaint from
him; just a few moans and perhaps a slight drawing away when she hurt
him slightly in spite of her gentle handling. Finally Madge consented
to rest a little, providing she was not forced to leave the shack. In
the absence of other accommodation Mrs. Papineau had spread a heavy
blanket on the floor, with odds and ends of spare clothing. It was
only after the good woman had solemnly promised to awaken her in case
there was the slightest need that the girl at last lay down, feeling
dead tired but without the slightest desire to sleep, as she thought.
But it did not take a very long time before her eyes closed and she
was deep in slumber that was heavy and dreamless. Maigan came and
curled up beside her. He thoroughly approved of her.
It was only after midday that she awoke, startled, as if conscious of
having been remiss in her duty, and raised herself quickly to a
sitting posture.
"Is--is everything all right?" she asked, anxiously.
Upon being reassured she tried to lie down again, at Mrs. Papineau's
urging, but sleep refused to come. Indeed, she felt greatly rested.
And then she began to feel very hungry and had a meal of bread and
tea, with a few dried prunes. It was not a very fine repast, but Madge
was amazed to see what a lot she could eat. When she rose from the
table she felt conscious that in some way she had gained strength, in
spite of her weariness. After this she renewed the dressings again,
taking the greatest pains with them. It was getting dark when Mrs.
Papineau left her, utterly indifferent to the howling of wolves on the
distant ridges. She had offered to remain but Madge knew that her
presence was needed at home, owing to the little ones. Moreover, the
girl was getting accustomed to her weird surroundings.
In the faithful Maigan there was a protector. Besides, she still
counted among the living; she was engaged in work that called for
and brought out all her womanhood. In spite of her fears for the
man the longing for his recovery was becoming mingled with a vague
confidence, with the idea of a possibility that something might
happen that would gradually develop in some sort of promise for a
future that would not be all sorrow and toil. It was perhaps simply
a temporary forgetfulness of self when confronted with what was a
greater and stronger interest. The girl Madge had become less
important when compared to the dying man. She was merely an instrument
wherewith destiny helped to shape certain indefinite ends. Her own
turn had not yet come, and her personality was submerged in a simple
acquiescence in plans and decrees she could not understand.
It appeared that the dreariness of the long hours had lessened. The
imminent threat of the day before was no longer so vivid and racking,
for the man kept on breathing with fair ease, and his pulse was
perhaps a little stronger. She was wondering why Stefan had not
returned as he had promised, when the now familiar sound of dogs and
sled fell again on her ears. To her joy and surprise she found that it
was the doctor, returning with the Swede.
"Managed to get away after all," explained the former. "It's the
devil's own thing to think there's a chap somewhere that a fellow
might perhaps help, and then be obliged to let him go because others
are calling for you. Women are desperately fond of asking their
husbands if they would save them or their mothers first, in case of
need. It's the deuce and all of a question to answer. But we fellows
who practice on the edge of the wilderness are all the time confronted
by beastly questions of that sort. How is he?"
"I really think he's better," she hastened to inform him, and
described how the sick man had spoken and been quite lucid for some
moments. Dr. Starr went in and stopped at the side of the bunk,
looking down with his chin resting on his hand.
To Madge he had seemed to be a man of few words, rather stern in his
manner and apt, as she thought, to view humanity from a very
materialistic point of view. His recent speech was the longest she had
heard from him. In a somewhat cynical vein he had referred to some
hard problems the lone practitioner has to solve at times.
"At any rate, he seems to be holding his own," he finally admitted. "I
can't see that he is a bit worse. It seems to me that you're a pretty
capable nurse. Some brains and lots of good strong will."
He looked away from her as he talked and began to rub his hands
together.
"Tell you what," he said, turning again to her. "This night might be
the decisive one, and I think I'll stick it out here again. I'll catch
the freight back in the morning, as I did to-day. We'll have a look at
the wound now, and see how those drains are working. Did you follow my
orders? But I think I needn't ask. Put more water on the stove,
Stefan."
Madge had been holding the lamp for him, and when the doctor passed
his hand over Hugo's forehead the eyes opened and the man blinked.
Also there seemed to be a relaxing of the tense, hollow-cheeked face.
"She--she's saving my life," he whispered, hoarsely. "She's tireless
and--and kindness itself. Don't--don't let her get played out."
He put out a brown hand that had rapidly become very thin and touched
the girl's arm, after which he lay back, exhausted by his slight
effort. The doctor went to work again, baring the wound, injecting
fluids, adjusting the drains, and as he busied himself he always found
the girl at his side, with all that he needed ready at his hand.
"That'll do for a while," he finally said. "The drainage is good. He
isn't absorbing much poison now, that's sure. If we can keep up his
strength he's going to pull through, I hope. Get us a bite of supper,
Stefan, I'm as hungry as a bear."
[Illustration: He put out a brown hand and touched the girl's arm]
During the night the doctor dozed off again, at times, like a man well
versed in conserving his energy. But whenever he awoke he found Madge
wide awake, intently observing the patient or busy with something for
his comfort. The sky had cleared again and the great trunks were again
cracking in the frost of the bright and starlit night. Dr. Starr had
been staring for some moments at the girl. He shivered a little and
drew his stool nearer the stove. Stefan was again snoring on the
floor.
"Come over here," he told Madge in a low voice, "bring your seat with
you. I want to get something off my mind."
"You needn't answer if you don't wish to," he told her, "but--but
there's something rather tragic about that little face of yours. I
don't think it's idle curiosity, but I'd like to know. I might as well
confess that I've been questioning that fellow Stefan about you, but
the sum of his knowledge is best represented by zero. I can assure you
that I don't want to intrude and that I won't be a bit offended if you
tell me it's none of my business."
"What do you want to know?" asked Madge, rather frightened, although
she did not know why.
"You are aware, of course, that we doctors are used to seeing pain and
usually try to get at the cause, so that we may better know how to
relieve it. I should judge that you have known a lot of suffering;
that sort of thing leaves marks. Fortunately, they can often be
effaced in the young. I have been thinking that you were in need of a
friend. No! Don't draw back! I'll say right now that my wife 's the
best woman on earth and I've got four kids. You ought to see the
little rascals. Now I might as well tell you that I'm grateful to you
for taking such good care of my patient. I'd also be glad of a chance
to help you a little, or give advice if you happen to need any."
Madge stared at him for a moment during which her eyes became somewhat
blurred. The doctor's offer seemed like the first really disinterested
and friendly one that had been proffered to her for some years. In
that vast New York she had become unused to that sort of thing. The
other people in this place had been ever so kind, of course, but it
was on account of their friend Hugo. At first she hesitated.
"You look like a man that can be trusted," she said, very low.
"I feel that I am," he answered, simply.
Then, gradually, moved by that desire to confess and trust in a friend
that is one of the best qualities of human nature, she told of her
coming, in halting, interrupted words. The doctor kept silent, nodding
now and then so that she became impressed with a certainty that he
understood. At times that deep red color suffused her cheeks, but they
would soon become pale again, all the more so for her dark-ringed
eyes. Little by little her story became easier to tell. She had
sketched it out in a few broad lines, but the man to whom she spoke
happened to know the world. Her speaking relieved her burdened heart
and gave her greater strength.
"And--and I think that's all," she faltered at last. "Do--do you
really understand? Do you think I've been a shameless creature to
venture into this? Can you realize what it is to be at the very end of
one's tether?"
The doctor looked at her, the tiny wrinkles in the corners of his eyes
becoming more pronounced. He put out his long-fingered, capable hand
to her, and she stretched out her own, timidly, in response.
"You and I, from this time on, are a pair of friends," he told her.
"Indeed, I'm acquainted with that huge beehive you came from, with its
drones and its workers, its squanderers and its makers. I studied
there for a couple of years, and I know why some of the women have a
choice between the river and even fouler waters. But let me tell you
what I think of this matter. The desperate effort you made to save
yourself may not have been very good judgment. Ninety-nine times out
of a hundred such an endeavor would be worse than jumping from the
frying-pan into the fire. But at least it argues something strong and
genuine in you. You came because you felt that you could not give up
the fight without one last supreme trial. Such a thing would take a
lot of pluck."
He stopped for a moment, looking into the whites of her eyes.
"And now you've made up your mind that all your struggle has been in
vain and that the end is in sight. Now I can't tell where that end
lies, Miss Nelson, but it looks to me as if it had retired into the
far distance. You are going to keep on taking care of this man, of
course. He needs you badly, in the first place, and the toil and
stress of it will be good for your soul. And then saving a life is
tremendously interesting. There's nothing like it. But your new life
is only to begin when this job is finished."
"I--I don't understand," said the girl, watching him eagerly.
"When you're through with this case, Stefan will bring you back to
Carcajou. There he'll put you on the train and send you to me. I can
assure you that my wife will welcome you. She's that sort, strong and
friendly and helpful. My poor little chaps don't see very much of
their daddy, but they've got a mother who's a wonder, to make up for
it. Now our village can't yet afford a trained nurse, though some day
I'm going to have a little hospital and two or three of them. The
railroad will help. But in the meanwhile you're going to work for me,
at little more than a servant's wages. You're quick and intelligent
and have a pair of gentle and capable hands. There are scores and
scores of little houses and shacks where your presence would be simply
invaluable. My wife tries it, but she can't do it all, with the kids
and the husband to look after. I shall work you like a horse, when you
get strong enough, but every bit of the work will help some poor
devil. My wife can give you a bed, a seat at our table and plenty of
good wise friendship. In all this you're going to give away a lot more
than you will receive. How does it strike you?"
But Madge was weeping silently, with her face held in her hands. The
doctor had certainly not tried to make his proposition very
attractive, and yet she felt as if she were emerging from deep waters
in which she had been suffocating. Now there was pure air to breathe
and there would always be God's sunlight to cheer one and bring
blessed warmth. From the slough of despond she was being drawn into
the glory of hope.
"I shall try," she promised. "Oh, how hard I'm going to try! It--it
seems just like some wonderful dream. But--but can I really earn all
this--are you sure that it isn't--"
"Charity on my part?" interrupted the doctor. "Not a bit, Miss Nelson.
We're scantily provided with women in these new countries. And there
are enough poor fellows who get hurt in the mines, or on the railroad,
to give you plenty of employment without counting the regular
settlers. A good woman's face at their side may make the end easier
for some of them and help others get well quicker."
"If--if you are very sure--"
"I know what I'm talking about. You see, Miss Nelson, there is really
no need of any one despairing in one of those big cities, so long as
there is enough strength and courage left to get out of them. In this
great expanse of wilderness toilers are needed, but we can't use
mollycoddles. The men have to hew and dig and plow, and need women to
work at their sides, to look after the injured, to teach the little
ones, to keep the rough crowd civilized and human. More than all they
are needed to become the mothers of a strong breed engaged in the
conquest of a new world, one that is being made first with the axe and
the hoe and in which the victory represents germinating seed and happy
usefulness. Countries such as this are not suited to the dross of
humanity. We cannot find employment for the weak, the lazy, or the
shiftless. The first of these are to be pitied, of course, but we
cannot help them. To the red-blooded and the clean of heart it offers
all that sturdy manhood and womanhood can desire. Surely you can see
how wide our horizons are, how full of promise is this new world that
stretches out its welcoming arms to you!"
"I see--I see it all," answered the girl. "Oh, what a glorious vision
it is! How can I ever thank you?"
"You don't have to," replied the man, sharply. "If you decide to
accept my offer I will be the one to feel grateful."
He looked at her keenly, and was doubtless satisfied with what he saw.
Then he tilted back the legs of his stool, rested his head on the log
wall behind him, and took another good sound nap.
He went away again just before sunrise, and Madge was left once more
alone with the sick man. Soon she noticed that his eyes opened
frequently, and followed her when she happened to move about the room.
She could see that her presence strengthened him. In Hugo's mind,
however, there was the dim impression that he was returning from a
long blindfolded journey that had left no impressions of anything but
vague pain and deep weariness. And it was utterly wonderful to be
greeted by a gentle voice and given care such as had not been his
since childhood.