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.

Sam knelt for a moment with his face beside his wife--what he said or
did the Lord only knew, but the doctor, who was of a speculative mind,
afterward said that when Sam appeared at the door he showed the first
Pike face in which he had ever seen any signs of a soul.

Sam went to the sod house, where lived the oldest woman in the camp, and
briefly announced the end of his wife. Then, after some consultation
with the old woman, Sam rode to town on one of his horses, leading
another. He came back with but one horse and a large bundle; and soon
the women were making for Mrs. Trotwine her last earthly robe, and the
first new one she had worn for years. The next day a wagon brought a
coffin and a minister, and the whole camp silently and respectfully
followed Mrs. Trotwine to a home with which she could find no fault.