"Certainly," she said gravely. "Take him to the second room
beyond--Steve's room--it's ready," she explained to two dusky shadows in
the hall behind the doctor.

"And look here," said the doctor, partly closing the door behind him
and regarding her with critical eyes, "you always said you'd like to see
some of my queer cases. Well, this is one--a serious one, too; in fact,
it's just touch and go with him. There's a piece of the bone pressing
on the brain no bigger than that, but as much as if all Burnt Ridge was
atop of him! I'm going to lift it. I want somebody here to stand by,
some one who can lend a hand with a sponge, eh?--some one who isn't
going to faint or scream, or even shake a hair's-breadth, eh?"

The color rose quickly to the girl's cheek, and her eyes kindled. "I'll
come," she said thoughtfully. "Who is he?"

The doctor stared slightly at the unessential query. "Don't know,--one
of the river miners, I reckon. It's an urgent case. I'll go and get
everything ready. You'd better," he added, with an ominous glance at
her gray frock, "put something over your dress." The suggestion made her
grave, but did not alter her color.

A moment later she entered the room. It was the one that had always been
set apart for her brother: the very bed on which the unconscious man
lay had been arranged that morning with her own hands. Something of
this passed through her mind as she saw that the doctor had wheeled it
beneath the strong light in the centre of the room, stripped its
outer coverings with professional thoughtfulness, and rearranged the
mattresses. But it did not seem like the same room. There was a pungent