“But Doctor Colbert is curing that,” said Ruth, eagerly.

“As God wills, my daughter,” said the Sister, making the sign of the cross.  “More recover, certainly, since he came.  Before, the little ones always died.”

“He told me that three babies were coming to you yesterday.  Are they here?  The poor, poor little things!  And may I see them, Sister?  I should like to help take care of them, if I might,” Ruth said timidly, not knowing that her pink cheeks bloomed into blush roses.

The Sister led the way into the other room—­the first orphan asylum in the wilderness—­and Ruth smiled and talked to the desolate little waifs of humanity as brightly as she could with dim eyes and quivering lips.  She, herself, and David, also, had been like this.  He had followed her into the room, and was now standing by her side, so that she could clasp his hand and hold it close.

Walking homeward through the darkening shadows of the forest, she still held his hand.  Both were thinking sadly enough of their own coming into this wild country, they knew not—­whence or how or wherefore—­and were never to know.

“Fathers and mothers must go suddenly when they leave their children so,” said Ruth, musingly.  “Ours must have died—­”

“Or have been murdered!” David broke out fiercely.

“No, no!” cried Ruth, shrinking closer to his side.  “I could not bear to think that.”

But the boy went on, as if speaking thoughts which had long rankled in bitter silence.  “It isn’t so bad as to believe that they deserted us, or died without leaving a word.  Fathers and mothers who love their children well enough to bear them in their arms through hundreds of weary miles over high mountains and down long rivers, and into the depths of the wilderness, would never desert them at the hard journey’s end.  Fathers and mothers who loved their children so dearly could hardly be taken away by lightning so quickly that they would not leave behind a single token of their love.  And we have never seen a sign showing that ours ever lived.  There is something wrong—­something unaccounted for—­something that we have not been permitted to know!”

“David, dear, dear David!”

“I have always believed it—­ever since I have been able to think.  As soon as I am old enough to speak like a man, I mean to demand the truth from Philip Alston!”

She dropped his hand and drew away from him with a look of wondering distress.  It was the one thing over which they had ever disagreed.

“You must never again say anything of that kind to me, David,” she said firmly.  “I beg that you will never say it to any one, never even think it.  For in thinking it, let alone saying it, you are not only unjust, but ungrateful.  What possible object could Philip Alston have in concealing anything that he might know about you and me?  Hasn’t he always been our best friend?”

And then the quick anger which had flashed out of her loyalty turned to gentle pleading.