Not until the fire in the old cylinder makeshift was burning merrily did he return to his patient; then, standing straight before her, he looked down with an air of childish dignity that would have been comical had it been less pathetic.

“Are you very sick, mamma?” he said at last, hesitatingly.

“I am dying, little son.”  She spoke calmly and impersonally, without even a quickening of the breath.  The thin hand, lying on the tattered cover, did not stir.

“Mamma!” the old-man face of the boy tightened, as, bending over the bed, he pressed his warm cheek against hers, now growing cold and white.

At the mouth of the kennel two bright eyes were watching curiously.  Their owner wriggled the tip of his muzzle inquiringly, but the action brought no response.  Then the muzzle went into the air, and a whine, long-drawn and insistent, broke the silence.

The boy rose.  There was not a trace of moisture in his eyes, but the uncannily aged face seemed older than before.  He went over to a peg where his clothes were hanging and took down the frayed garment that answered as an overcoat.  From the bunk there came another cough, quickly muffled; but he did not turn.  Cap followed coat, mittens cap; then, suddenly remembering, he turned to the stove and scattered fresh chips upon the glowing embers.

“Good-bye, mamma,” said the boy.

The mother had been watching him, although she gave no sign.  “Where are you going, sonny?” she asked.

“To town, mamma.  Someone ought to know you’re sick.”

There was a moment’s pause, wherein the mongrel whined impatiently.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me first, Benjamin?”

The little lad retraced his steps, until, bending over, his lips touched those of his mother.  As he did so, the hand which had lain upon the coverlet shifted to his arm detainingly.

“How were you thinking of going, son?”

A look of surprise crept into the boy’s blue eyes.  A question like this, with its obvious answer, was unusual from his matter-of-fact mother.  He glanced at her gravely.

“I’m going afoot, mamma.”

“It’s ten miles to town, Benjamin.”

“But you and I walked it once together.  Don’t you remember?”

An expression the lad did not understand flashed over the white face of Jennie Blair.  Well she remembered that other occasion, one of many like the present, when she and the little lad had gone in company to the settlement of which Mick Kennedy’s place was a part, in search of someone whom after ten hours’ delay they had succeeded in bringing home,—­the remnant and vestige of what was once a man.

“Yes, I know we did, Bennie.”

The boy waited a moment longer, then straightened himself.

“I think I’d better be starting now.”

But instead of loosening its hold, the hand upon the boy’s shoulder tightened.  The eyes of the two met.