It will come when once more he stands in the soft white sand of that cavern floor, and sometimes I tremble when I think that when that moment comes I will be at his side.
To me it will be terrible.

To him it will be--what?
That hour has not quite arrived.

It happened this way: Old Donald was coming down from the North on the early slush snows this spring when he came to a shack in which a man was almost dead of the smallpox.

It was DeBar, the half-breed.
"Fearlessly MacDonald nursed him.

He says it was God who sent him to that shack.