“Do somethin’ for her,” gasped the sick man; “give her a chance, for God’s sake.  I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I kind o’ woke up las’ night ez ef I’d been asleep; she wuz a-standin’ lookin’ in my eyes, an’ hed a han’ on my cheek.  ‘I b’lieve it’s turned,’ sez she, still a-lookin’.  After a bit she sez:  ‘It’s turned sure,’ an’ all of a sudden she tumbled.  I couldn’t holler—­I wish to God I could.”

[Illustration:  ARKANSAS BILL KNOCKED LIGHTLY ON THE DOOR, AND LOOKED IN.  THERE LAY THE SICK MAN, HIS EYES PARTLY OPEN.  AND ON THE GROUND, APPARENTLY ASLEEP, AND WITH PURPLE FACE, LAY MRS. BLIZZER.]

Arkansas Bill opened the door, and called Blizzer, and the crowd followed Blizzer, though at a respectful distance.  In a moment Blizzer reappeared with his wife, no longer fat, in his arms, and Arkansas Bill hurried on to open Blizzer’s door.  The crowd halted, and didn’t know what to do, until Moosoo, the little Frenchman, lifted his hat, upon, which every man promptly uncovered his head.

A moment later Arkansas Bill was on Sim Ripson’s horse, and galloping off for a doctor, and Sim Ripson, who had always threatened sudden death to any one touching his beloved animal, saw him, and refrained even from profanity.  The doctor came, and the boys crowded the door to hear what he had to say.

“Hum!” said the doctor, a rough miner himself, “new arrival—­been fat—­worn out—­rainy season just coming on—­not much chance.  No business to come to California—­ought to have had sense enough to stay home.”

“Look a’ here, doctor,” said Arkansas Bill, indignantly; “she’s got this way a-nussin’ a feller—­stranger, too—­that ev’ry man in camp wuz afeard to go nigh.”

“Is that so?” asked the doctor, in a tone considerably softened; “then she shall get well, if my whole time and attention can bring it about.”

The sick woman lay in a burning fever for days, and the boys industriously drank her health, and bet heavy odds on her recovery.  No singing was ’allowed anywhere in camp, and when an old feud broke out afresh between two miners, and they drew their pistols, a committee was appointed to conduct them at least two miles from camp, before allowing them to shoot.

The Sundays were allowed to pass in the commonplace quietness peculiar to the rest of the week, and men who were unable to forego their regular weekly spree were compelled to emigrate.  Sim Ripson, though admitting that the change was decidedly injurious to his business, declared that he would cheerfully be ruined in business rather than have that woman disturbed; he was ever heard to say that, though of course there was no such place as heaven, there ought to be, for such woman.

One evening, as the crowd were quietly drinking and betting, Arkansas Bill suddenly opened the door of the store, and cried:  “She’s mendin’!  The fever’s broke—­’sh-h!”

“My treat, boys,” said Sim Ripson, hurrying glasses and favorite bottles on the bar.