After some waiting the old man came to the door holding a candle high above his head.  His face was haggard and worn, and the whole place looked dishevelled.  His eyes had a weary look as he peered into the night and it was evident that he had no thought of ever having seen them before: 

“I can’t do much fer ya, strangers,” he said, his voice sounding tired and discouraged.  “If it’s a woman ye have with ye, ye better ride on to the next ranch.  My woman is sick.  Very sick.  There’s nobody here with her but me, and I have all I can tend to.  The house ain’t kept very tidy.  It’s six weeks since she took to bed.”

Elizabeth had sprung lightly to the ground and was now at the threshold: 

“Oh, is she sick?  I’m so sorry?  Couldn’t I do something for her?  She was good to me once several years ago!”

The old man peered at her blinkingly, noting her slender beauty, the exquisite eager face, the dress that showed her of another world—­and shook his head: 

“I guess you made a mistake, lady.  I don’t remember ever seeing you before—­”

“But I remember you,” she said eagerly stepping into the room, “Won’t you please let me go to her?”

“Why, shore, lady, go right in ef you want to.  She’s layin’ there in the bed.  She ain’t likely to get out of it again’ I’m feared.  The doctor says nothin’ but a ’noperation will ever get her up, and we can’t pay fer ’noperations.  It’s a long ways to the hospital in Chicago where he wants her sent, and M’ria and I, we ain’t allowin’ to part.  It can’t be many years—­”

But Elizabeth was not waiting to hear.  She had slipped into the old bedroom that she remembered now so well and was kneeling beside the bed talking to the white faced woman on the thin pillow: 

“Don’t you remember me,” she asked, “I’m the girl you tried to get to stay with you once.  The girl that came here with a man she had met in the wilderness.  You told me things that I didn’t know, and you were kind and wanted me to stay here with you?  Don’t you remember me?  I’m Elizabeth!”

The woman reached out a bony hand and touched the fair young face that she could see but dimly in the flare of the candle that the old man now brought into the room: 

“Why, yes, I remember,” the woman said, her voice sounded alive yet in spite of her illness, “Yes, I remember you.  You were a dear little girl, and I was so worried about you.  I would have kept you for my own—­but you wouldn’t stay.  And he was a nice looking young man, but I was afraid for you—­You can’t always tell about them—­You mostly can’t—!”

“But he was all right Mother!” Elizabeth’s voice rang joyously through the cabin, “He took care of me and got me safely started toward my people, and now he’s my husband.  I want you to see him.  George come here!”

The old woman half raised herself from the pillow and looked toward the young man in the doorway: