"Why, certainly we shall wait," cried the doctor.

Twenty miles through the storm came d.i.c.k, in answer to Margaret's urgent message, to find his brother dangerously ill and preparing for a serious operation. The meeting of the brothers was without demonstration of emotion. Each for the sake of the other held himself firmly in hand.

The issues were so grave that there was no room for any expenditure of strength and indulging in the luxury of grief. Quietly, Barney gave his brother the few directions necessary to the disposal of his personal effects.

"Of course, d.i.c.k, I expect to get through all right," he said, with cheerful courage.

"Of course," answered d.i.c.k, quickly.

"But it's just as well to say things now when one can think quietly."

"Quite right, Barney," said d.i.c.k again, his voice steady and even.

The remaining minutes they spent in almost complete silence, except for a message of remembrance for the mother and the father far away; then the doctor came to the door.

"Are you ready, Doctor?" said d.i.c.k, in a firm, almost cheerful voice.

"Yes, we're all ready."

"A minute, Doctor, please," said Barney.

The doctor backed out of the room, leaving the brothers alone.

"Just a little, word, d.i.c.k."

"Oh, Barney," cried his brother, his breast heaving in a great sob, "I don't think I can."

"Never mind then, old chap," replied Barney, putting out his hand to him.

"Wait a minute, Barney. I will," said d.i.c.k, instantly regaining hold of himself. As he spoke he knelt by the bed, took his brother's hand in both of his and, holding it to his face, spoke quietly and simply his prayer, closing with the words, "And O, my Father, keep my brother safe." "And mine," added Barney. "Amen."

"Now, d.i.c.k, old boy, we're all ready." And with a smile he met the doctor at the door.

In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of the doctor and the nurse told d.i.c.k all he dared not ask.

"How long before he will be quite conscious again?" he inquired.

"It will be an hour at least," replied the surgeon, kindly, "before he can talk much."

Without a word to anyone, d.i.c.k went away to his room, locked the door upon his lonely fight and came forth when the hour was gone, ready to help his brother if he should chance to need help for "the last weariness, the final strife."

"We must help him," he said to Margaret as they stood together waiting till he should waken. "We must forget our side just now."

But he need not have feared for her, nor for Barney. Through the night they watched him grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, as it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light of hope and warm with strong and tender love. At times Barney would wander in his delirium, but a word would call him back to them. As the end drew near, by Nature's kindly ministry the pain departed.

"This is not too bad, d.i.c.k," he said. "How much worse it might have been. He brought us two together again--us three," he corrected, glancing at Margaret.

"Yes, Barney," replied d.i.c.k, "nothing matters much beside that."

"And then," continued his brother, "He let me do a little work for the boys, for 'Mexico.' Poor 'Mexico'! But he'll stick, I think. Help him, d.i.c.k. He is my friend."

"Mine, too, Barney," said d.i.c.k; "mine forever."

"Poor chaps, they need me. What a chance for some man!--for a doctor, I mean!"

"We'll get someone, Barney. Never fear."

"What a chance!" he murmured again, wearily, as he fell asleep.

Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, the whole world was at peace. The mountains and the wide valleys lay beautiful in their unsullied robes of purest white, and, over all, the rising sun cast a rosy sheen. As Margaret rolled up the blinds and drew back the curtains, letting in the glory of the morning, Barney opened his eyes and turned his face toward the window, moving his lips in a whisper.

Bending over him his brother caught the words, "Night no more." The great day was dawning for him. With a long, lingering look upon the mountains, he turned his eyes away from the window and let them rest upon his brother's face. "It is near now, d.i.c.k--I think--and it's not hard at all. I'd like to sleep out there--under the pines--but I think mother--would like--to have me near."

"Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to mother." d.i.c.k's voice was steady and clear.

"Margaret," said Barney. She came and knelt where he could see her. An odd little smile played over his face. "I wasn't worth it, Margaret--but I thank you--I like to think of it now--I would like you--to kiss me."

She kissed him on the lips once, twice, for a single moment her superb courage faltering as she whispered in his ear, "Barney, my love! my love!"

Again he smiled up at her. "Margaret," he said, "take care--of d.i.c.k--for me."

"Yes, Barney, I will." The brave blue eyes and the clear, sweet voice carried full conviction to his mind.

"I know you will," he said with a sigh of content. For a long time he lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing growing more rapid. Suddenly he opened his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. "d.i.c.k, my boy,"

he cried, in a clear, strong voice, "my brother--my brother." He lifted up both his arms and wound them round d.i.c.k's neck, drew a deep breath, then another. They waited anxiously. Then one more. Again they waited, tense and breathless, but the eternal silence had fallen.

"He's gone, Margaret!" cried d.i.c.k, in a voice of piteous surprise, lifting up a white appealing face to her. "He's gone! Oh! he has left us!"

She came quickly round to him and knelt at his side. "We have only each other now, d.i.c.k," she said, and took him in her arms. And so, in the strength of the great love that bound them to the dead, they found courage to turn again and live.

Three days later, when the road was clear again, they bore him through the Pa.s.s, the General Manager placing his private car at their disposal.

It was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal procession of a king. At every station stood a group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken.

It was their friend who was being carried past. At Bull Crossing a longer stay was made. The station house and platform and the street behind were blocked with men who had gathered in from the lumber camps and from down the line. One of their number came up, bearing a large wreath of the costliest flowers brought from the far south, and laid it on the bier. The messenger stood there a moment and then said, hesitatingly, "The men would like to see him again, if you think best."

"Tell them to come," replied d.i.c.k, quickly, proceeding to uncover the face. For almost an hour they filed past, solemn, silent for the most part, but many weeping as only strong men can weep. But as they looked upon the strong dead face, its serene dignity, its proud look of triumph subdued their sobbing, and they pa.s.sed out awed and somewhat comforted.

The look on that dead face forbade pity. They might grieve for the loss of their friend, but to him the best had come.

By Margaret's side stood Tommy Tate, till the last. "Ochone!" he sobbed, "when I think of mesilf me heart is bruck entirely, but when I luk at him I feel no pain at all." It was the feeling in the hearts of all. For themselves they must weep, but not for him.

At length, all had gone. "Could you say a word to them, d.i.c.k?" said Margaret. "I think he would like it." And d.i.c.k, drawing a deep breath, went forth to them. His words were few and simple. "We must not speak words of grief to-day. He was glad to help you and he grew to love you as his friends. In his last hours he thought of you. I know you will not forget him. But were he giving me my words to-day, he would not ask me to speak of him, but of the One who made him what he was, Whom he loved and served with his life. For His sake it was, and for yours, that he gave himself to you."

As his voice ceased a commotion rose at the back of the crowd. A sleigh dashed up, two men got out, helping a third, before whom the crowd quickly made way. It was "Mexico," pale, feeble, leaning heavily upon his friends. He came up to d.i.c.k. "May I see him?" he asked humbly.

"Come in," said d.i.c.k, giving him both his hands and lifting him on to the platform, while a great sob swept over the crowd. They all knew by this time that it was to save "Mexico" the doctor had given his life.

With heads bared they waited till "Mexico" came out again. As he appeared on the platform of the car with d.i.c.k's arm supporting him, the men gazed at him in deathly stillness. The ghastly face with its fierce, gleaming eyes held them as with a spell. For a moment "Mexico" stood leaning heavily upon d.i.c.k, but suddenly he drew himself erect.

"Boys," he said, his voice hoa.r.s.e and broken, but distinctly audible over the crowd, "he died because he wouldn't go back on his friend. He gave me this." He took from his breast the New Testament, held it up and carried it reverently to his lips. "I'm a-goin' to follow that trail."

Two thousand miles and more they carried him home to his mother, and then to the old churchyard, where he sleeps still, forgotten, perhaps, even by many who had known and played with him in his boyhood, but remembered by the men of the mountains who had once felt the touch of that strong love that gave the best and freely for their sakes, and for His Whom it was his pride and joy to call Master and Friend.