turned from him witheringly.

"Who was it staked ye for a new prospectin' trip, an' let his own mine
go unworked? Who nursed ye when ye were lyin' seeck unto death, an' no
one would come nigh on account of the smallpox scare? Old Charlie
Price."

A boy whirled about to face the window, but not before one
uncontrollable sob had sounded through the quiet room.

"Who was it," went on the old Scotchman gently, "found the wee bairn
that was lost, last summer; that followed the Indians for thirty miles
on his Leezie-mare and got the babe from out the wickiup of White
Beaver? Charlie Price.

"Who came bringing it haeme laughing, on the saddle pommel while he sang
to it songs from ower seven seas, which we did blush to hear, in a voice
to be heard twa miles about? And 'twas only the bairn's mother who
thought to thank him.

"Yea, and furthermore, when the incensed people would hae wipet out the
while tribe of White Beaver, who dashed at the mob wi' the roars of a
bull-bison forcin' them to hear that the squaw was crazed from the death
of her own bit bairn, and but tryin' to comfort her sore heart? Who, I'm
askin' ye?" and from each man's lips came the murmur like a response to
a litany:

"Charlie Price."

From the open door a cool dawn breeze blew in from the Sierras, pure