likely be delirious."

"Good Lord," MacRae whispered, "as bad as that! What is it?"

"The flu," Dolly said quietly. "Everybody has been having it. Old Bill
Munro died in his shack a week ago."

"Has dad had a doctor?"

The girl nodded.

"Harper from Nanaimo came day before yesterday. He left medicine and
directions; he can't come again. He has more cases than he can handle
over there."

They went through the front door into a big, rudely furnished room with
a very old and worn rug on the floor, a few pieces of heavy furniture,
and bare, uncurtained windows. A heap of wood blazed in an open
cobblestone fireplace.

MacRae stopped short just within the threshold. Through a door slightly
ajar came the sound of stertorous breathing, intermittent in its volume,
now barely audible, again rising to a labored harshness. He listened, a
look of dismayed concern gathering on his face. He had heard men in the
last stages of exhaustion from wounds and disease breathe in that
horribly distressed fashion.

He stood a while uncertainly. Then he laid off his mackinaw, walked
softly to the bedroom door, looked in. After a minute of silent watching
he drew back. The girl had seated herself in a chair. MacRae sat down