In the gaunt, wiry figure and the lean, brown face Jane recognized one of her Mormon riders, Blake.

It was he of whom Judkins had long since spoken.

Of all the riders ever in her employ Blake owed her the most, and as he stepped before her, removing his hat and making manly efforts to subdue his emotion, he showed that he remembered.
"Miss Withersteen, mother's dead," he said.
"Oh--Blake!" exclaimed Jane, and she could say no more.
"She died free from pain in the end, and she's buried--resting at last, thank God!...

I've come to ride for you again, if you'll have me.

Don't think I mentioned mother to get your sympathy.