Thrilling Story

III. Written for Thk Register. One idea is uppermost in her mind. He may be dying. She must have help. And now that she sits for the first time i-ince she began her walk she realizes how üred she is. She does not think of herself. She wonders if her gtrength will carry her down to the camp for assietance and if so, would it suffice to bring her back ? There is no one at the house but the old Indian - the horees are gone - and how could ghe make old Wa-ha-me-ha understand? But could ghe leave him alone here in any case? And to stay means certain death. Then the wild thought comes to her that she must get him back to the house. She will force herself to hare strength to drag him. She begina her desperate taak. Each sttp seems a rod and she fights despair. She will not own to herself the hopeles?ness of it. And the trail is so hard to find in the dim light after the slowly getting san has at last disappeared. A life far dearer than her own is at stake and she staggers on. It will be easier when she reaches the straight trail. She does not allow hereelf to stand or rest for a moment. It is biight moonlight now. And güll she toils on and on and on. What if morniag should overtake them on the sands. It must not. That would be to abandon hope. The owls and coyotes are at their screeching and howling again. How slowly, slowly sbe is moving. It is a fearful Btruggle with her gtrength. Nothing but an indomitable will not, keeps her from sinking at every step. She will never know how ghe reached the yellow gands which seemed the promised land to her that night, and finally the desert house. She drank the whisky Wa-ha-m-ha put to her Ups, and together they worked over the body whioh for eight hours gaye no sign of life. When at last Fratrk Gray opened his eyes Marjorie West was bending over him. He thought he had avrakened from another woon under the palms. He looked up inquiringly into her face. "You are in our own house. Some friends brought you here. We will not leave ycu. We will watch tiil Dick returns." Then he slept. He was breathing. He would live. The old Indian took Marjorie firmly by the arm, and led her to her room. She did not wake again until the moon shone in opon her, and the voices in the next room told her that her brother had returned. IV. "We lef t him"said Dick West afterward, " two miles up in the valley. He said he didn't fee! well enough to go on all the way and we advned him to turn back at once, but we didn't think of his being so bad. He must have fallen iust about where we left him." During the terrible illness that followed, Marjorie was Frank Gray'a faithful attendant ; and her brother shared the anxious watching with her. For long weeks it seemed as if the river of death would carry him out on its tide, and far away beyond their reach ; but the late fall found him able to lie out on the veranda on his couch all day long. Pleasant days they were to Marjorie. She delighted to read and sing and talk with him, and to anticípate all his little wants and desires. "If you keep oh improving," says Marjorie one day, " it won't be long before we take you off to San Lucero, ' will you o will you?1" "But I can't go there you know." "We've taken you bodily before, sir, and I rather suspect that we'll do it again." "That would be tyranny, but eamestly, I think 1 shall improve as quickly here as aoywhere." " Well, if you insist, Dick and I will hare to leave you to t';e tender mercies of the coyotes and Indiuh. ; acd the ' tender mercies of the wicked are cruel' you know. Now what do you say ?" "Are you serious?" " Yes, indeed, I am; I forone am heartily tired of this desert, and long for a ohange. Besides, don't you see how pale I've grown V' ghe asks laughingly. "Ton have certainly. I must have been blind not to see it. You must let me take care of myself after this. You're worn out waiting on me." "No, it isn't that. But it may be anxiety that my patiënt wouldn't reover ïad aomething to do with it Doctors alvays worry, though they pretend not to. !ïow, I know you'll take pity on me and be well enough to go to San Lucero next week." "Yes, if you really wish it." He knows hat it is for his gake and not her own that he wishes to go. "But, Marjorie, I'm under such terrible obligation now to you and your brother, that I never can repay 'Ou ; and this will increase the debt." "I like to be under obligation to my riends," ghe says, " particularly when I cnow that they enjoy helping me. That s what I oall being really generous and unselflsh." Marjorie is surprised at her own boldre8 as ghe goes on. She knows she has ecome a necessity to Frank Qray's Hfe, ut she must make him teil her so. She ays aside her pride in order to force him o do the same. " You know there U nothing to repay. 'he debt was cancelled when you let me ind you and take care of you." "Isit so, Marjorie? Do you mean it?" ie asks. And she answers " It is." "You would be my wife if I should ver - "No; I will be whatever may happen." ♦ It was only a few days after the above onversation that San Lucero saw the wedding of Majorie West and Frank Gray. The Springs have helped him more than Marjorie had dared to hope, and she feels hat her long walk on the mountain and desert has proved the btessing of her life.