“It will not be long now.  You can soon go back to them,” she said.

The tone was none the less soothing because a bitter pang went through her own heart with the words.  What should she do when he was gone?  And he was almost strong enough to return to the work which was calling him.  But the aching of a true woman’s own heart has nothing to do with the peace that she gives to those whom she loves.  And then it may have been only the sweet sadness of the spirit harp’s sighing that made Ruth’s lips quiver under their bright smile.

“But they need me now,” he groaned.  “They are dying untended while I lie helpless here.  The old doctor cannot take care of them.  He has too many patients of his own.  He is riding day and night.  He tries to hide the truth, but I know it.  The Cold Plague grows in violence every day.”

He suddenly raised himself on his elbow with a great effort.

“Maybe I can sit up if I try very hard,” he gasped.  “The will has much to do with the strength.  I am determined—­”

“No! no!” cried Ruth in alarm.

But he had already sunk back exhausted.  His lids drooped heavily for a moment through weakness.  And then he looked up in her frightened face with a reassuring smile as she gently pressed his head down upon the pillow.

“What strict little mother,” he murmured.

She shook her head and drew the counterpane closer about his neck, carefully lightening the weight over his wounded shoulder.  With soft light touches she smoothed out the smallest wrinkle marring the comfort of the narrow, bed.  When this was done and he lay quiet again, she began to talk quietly but brightly of other things, hoping to divert his thoughts.  She told him all the innocent gossip of the neighborhood.  Most of this had come to her from the Sisters, for she seldom saw any one else.  There was much to tell of their little charges, and particularly of the three babies whom he and Father Orin had taken from the deserted, plague-stricken cabin in the wilderness.  She did not say that these little ones had become her own special care, but caused his smile to grow brighter by telling how like children the gentle Sisters themselves were.  She repeated what they had said of Tommy Dye’s last visit.  Their serious, perplexed account of it was now unconsciously colored by her own gentle, fine sense of humor which also came so close to pathos that a lump rose in Paul Colbert’s throat as he listened.  He could see just how poor Tommy Dye had looked, but his eyes grew dim while his lips smiled.  And now another and deeper shadow swiftly swept over his face.

“So even poor old Tommy Dye has gone to Tippecanoe.  Everybody but me is gone or going.  I alone am left behind.  And yet—­even if this hadn’t happened—­I must still have stood at my post,” he said sadly.

Her hand fluttered down upon his like a startled dove.  There was a sudden radiance in her dark blue eyes.  She barely breathed the next words that she spoke:—­