Suddenly the raw hide which formed the door of Sam’s house was pushed aside, and a woman came out and called Sam, and he disappeared from his log.

As he entered his hut, all the women lifted sorrowful faces and retired; no one even lingered, for the Pike has not the common human interest in other people’s business; he lacks that, as well as certain similar virtues of civilization.

Sam dropped by the bedside, and was human; his heart was in the right place; and though heavily intrenched by years of laziness and whisky and tobacco, it could be brought to the front, and it came now.

The dying woman cast her eyes appealingly at the surgeon, and that worthy stepped outside the door.  Then the yellow-faced woman said: 

“Sam, doctor says I ain’t got much time left.”

“Mary,” said Sam, “I wish ter God I could die fur yer.  The children—­”

“It’s them I want to talk about, Sam,” replied his wife.  ‘An’ I wish they could die with me, rather’n hev ’em liv ez I’ve hed to.  Not that you ain’t been a kind husband to me, for you hev.  Whenever I wanted meat yev got it, somehow; an’ when yev been ugly drunk, yev kep’ away from the house.  But I’m dyin’, Sam, and it’s cos you’ve killed me.”

“Good God, Mary!” cried the astonished Sam, jumping up; “yure crazy—­here, doctor!”

“Doctor can’t do no good, Sam; keep still, and listen, ef yer love me like yer once said yer did; for I hevn’t got much breath left,” gasped the woman.

“Mary,” said the aggrieved Sam, “I swow to God I dunno what yer drivin’ at.”

“It’s jest this, Sam,” replied the woman:  “Yer tuk me, tellin’ me ye’d love me an’ honor me an’ pertect me.  You mean to say, now, yev done it?  I’m a-dyin’, Sam—­I hain’t got no favors to ask of nobody, an’ I’m tellin’ the truth, not knowin’ what word’ll be my last.”

“Then tell a feller where the killin’ came in, Mary, for heaven’s sake,” said the unhappy Sam.

“It’s come in all along, Sam,” said the woman; “there is women in the States, so I’ve heerd, that marries fur a home, an’ bread an’ butter, but you promised more’n that, Sam.  An’ I’ve waited.  An’ it ain’t come.  An’ there’s somethin’ in me that’s all starved and cut to pieces.  An’ it’s your fault, Sam.  I tuk yer fur better or fur wuss, an’ I’ve never grumbled.”

“I know yer hain’t, Mary,” whispered the conscience-stricken Pike.  “An’ I know what yer mean.  Ef God’ll only let yer be fur a few years, I’ll see ef the thing can’t be helped.  Don’t cuss me, Mary—­I’ve never knowed how I’ve been a-goin’.  I wish there was somethin’ I could do ’fore you go, to pay yer all I owe yer.  I’d go back on everything that makes life worth hevin’.”

“Pay it to the children, Sam,” said the sick woman, raising herself in her miserable bed.  “I’ll forgive yer everything if you’ll do the right thing fur them.  Do—­do—­everything!” said the woman, throwing up her arms and falling backward.  Her husband’s arm caught her; his lips brought to her wan face a smile, which the grim visitor, who an instant later stole her breath, pityingly left in full possession of the rightful inheritance from which it had been so long excluded.