That night Jack French packed his buckboard with grub for his six-hundred-mile journey, and at the end of the third week, for the trail was heavy on the Portage Plains, he drove his limping broncho up the muddy Main Street of Winnipeg.
When the barber had finished with him, he set forth to find his brother's wife, who, seeing him, turned deadly pale and stood looking sadly at him, her hand pressed hard upon her heart.
"Oh, Jack!" she said at length, with a great pity in her voice,--"poor Jack! why did you come ?" "To make you a home with me," said Jack, looking at her with eyes full of longing, "and wherever you choose, here or yonder at the Night Hawk Ranch, which is much better,"-- at which her tears began to flow.
"Poor Jack! Dear Jack!" she cried, "why did you come ?" "You know why," he said.

"Can you not learn to love me ?" "Love you, Jack?
I could not love you more." "Can you not come to me ?" "Dear Jack! Poor Jack!" she said again, and fell to sobbing bitterly till he forgot his own grief in hers.

"I love my husband still." "And I too," said Jack, looking pitifully at her.
"And I must keep my heart for him till I see him again." Her voice sank to a whisper, but she stood bravely looking into his eyes, her two hands holding down her fluttering heart as if in fear that it might escape.
"And is that the last word ?" said Jack wearily.
"Yes, Jack, my brother, my dear, dear brother," she said, "it is the last.

And oh, Jack, I have had much sorrow, but none more bitter than this!" And sobbing uncontrollably, she laid herself on his breast.
He held her to him, stroking her beautiful hair, his brown hand trembling and his strong face twisting strangely.
"Don't cry, dear Margaret.

Don't cry like that.