“That all?” said Gettysburg, and, watching as he went, he slowly returned to his partners.  His explanation was ample.  The surveyors proceeded on.

Meantime, in absolute ignorance of all that was happening on his property, Van continued towards Starlight unmolested.  An hour after sundown he rode to the camp, inquired his way to the rough-board shack, where Kent was lying ill, and was met at the door by a stranger, whom Glen had employed as cook and “general nurse.”

Bostwick was there.  He remained unseen.  His instructions were imperative—­and the “nurse” had no choice but to obey.

“Of course, Kent’s here,” he admitted, in response to Van’s first question.  “He can’t see no one, neither—­no matter who it is.”

“I’ve brought a letter from his sister,” Van explained.  “He’s got to have it, and have it now.  If he wishes to send any answer back, I’m here to take it.”

The “nurse” looked him over.

“The orders from the doctor is no visitors!” he said.  “And that goes.  If you want to leave the letter, why you kin.”

Van produced the letter.

“If the man’s as ill as that, I have no desire to butt in for an interview,” he said.  “Oblige me by ascertaining at your earliest convenience whether or not I may be of service to Mr. Kent in returning his reply.”

The man looked bewildered.  He received the letter, somewhat dubiously, and disappeared.  Van waited.  The reception was not precisely what he might have expected, but, for the matter of that, neither had the trip been altogether what he might have chosen.

It was fully twenty minutes before the nurse reappeared.

“He was just woke up enough to say thank you and wants to know if you’ll oblige him with the favor of takin’ his hand-write back to his sister in the mornin’?”

Van looked him over steadily.  After all, the man within might be utterly sick and weak.  His request was natural.  And the service was for Beth.

“Certainly,” he said.  “I’ll be here at seven in the morning.”

Starlight was nearly deserted.  Gratified to discover sufficient food and bedding for himself and his pony, Van made no complaint.

At six in the morning he was rousing up the blacksmith, fortunately not yet gone to join the reservation rush.  Suvy was shod, and at seven o’clock he and Van were again at Glenmore’s cabin.

His man was in waiting.  In his hand he held an envelope, unsealed.

“Mr. Kent’s asleep, but here’s his hand-write to his sister,” he said.  “He wants you to read it out before you hike.”

Van received the envelope, glanced at the man inquiringly, and removed a single sheet of paper.  It was not a note from Glen; it appeared to be the final page of Beth’s own letter to her brother.  Van knew the strong, large chirography.  His eye ran swiftly over all the lines.