“Jim,” she said, in a voice that shook with emotion, “do you think I’m a kind enough woman?”

“Too kind—­for such as me,” said Jim, thickly.  He took her hand in his own, and with something of a courtliness and grace, reminiscent of his youth, he raised it to his lips.  “Good-night,” he said.  “Good-night, Miss Doc.”

“Good-night, Jim,” she answered, and he saw in her eyes the beauty that God in his wisdom gives alone to mother-kind.

And when he had gone she sat there long, forgetting to keep up the fire, forgetting that Doc himself would come home early in the morning from his night-employment, forgetting everything personal save the words old Jim had spoken, as she knitted and knitted, to finish that tiny pair of mittens.

The night was spent, and her heart was at once glad and sore when, at last, she concluded her labor of love.  Nevertheless, in the morning she was up in time to prepare a luncheon for Jim to take along, and to delve in her trunk for precious wraps and woollens in which to bundle the grave little pilgrim, long before old Jim or the horse he would ride had appeared before the house.

Little Skeezucks was early awake and dressed.  A score of times Miss Doc caught him up in her hungering arms, to hold him in fervor to her heart and to kiss his baby cheek.  If she cried a little, she made it sound and look like laughter to the child.  He patted her face with his tiny hand, even as he begged for “Bruvver Jim.”

“You’re goin’ to find Bruvver Jim,” she said.  “You’re goin’ away from fussy old me to where you’ll be right happy.”

At least a dozen men of the camp came plodding along behind the horse, that arrived at the same time Jim, the pup, and Keno appeared at the Dennihan home.

Doc Dennihan had cut off his customary period of rest and sleep, to say good-bye, with the others, to the pilgrims about to depart.

Jim was dressed about as usual for the ride, save that he wore an extra pair of trousers beneath his overalls and a great blanket-coat upon his back.  He was hardy, and he looked it, big as he was and solidly planted in his wrinkled boots.

The sky, despite Webber’s predictions of a storm, was practically free from clouds, but a breeze was sweeping through the gorge with increasing strength.  It was cold, and the men who stood about in groups kept their hands in their pockets and their feet on the move for the sake of the slight degree of warmth thereby afforded.

As their spokesman, Webber, the blacksmith, took the miner aside.

“Jim,” said he, producing a buckskin bag, which he dropped in the miner’s pocket, “the boys can’t do nuthin’ fer little Skeezucks when he’s ’way off up to Fremont, so they’ve chipped in a little and wanted you to have it in case of need.”

“But, Webber—­” started Jim.

“Ain’t no buts,” interrupted the smith.  “You’ll hurt their feelin’s if you go to buttin’ and gittin’ ornary.”