But when he turned to the woman who lay unconscious on the ground, a sob burst from his lips, and tears were streaming down his dust-grimed cheeks.

And as he knelt beside her he called again and again that name which, a year before, he had whispered as he stood with empty, outstretched arms, alone, on the summit of the Divide.
Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the hammock, and finding water and a towel, wet her brow and face; and all the while, in an agony of fear, he talked to her with words of love.
Overwrought by the unexpected, and, to him, almost miraculous meeting with Helen--weak and shaken by the strain of those moments of her danger, when her life depended so wholly upon his coolness and skill--unnerved by the sight of her lying so still and white, and beside himself with the strength of his passion--the man made no effort to account for her presence in that wild and lonely spot, so far from the scenes amid which he had learned to know and love her.

He was conscious only that she was there--that she had been very near to death--that he had held her in his arms--and that he loved her with all the strength of his manhood.
Presently, with a low cry of joy, he saw the blood creep back into her white cheeks.

Slowly her eyes opened and she looked wonderingly up into his face.
"Helen!" he breathed.

"Helen!" "Why, Larry!" she murmured, still confused and wondering.