Houston bowed in assent, he could not speak.
“Oh,” moaned Lyle, “no wonder that he loved us so! and we have not loved him half enough!” and dropping on her knees beside the bed, sobbing bitterly, she seized the hand, nearly as white as the sheet upon which it lay, and covered it with passionate kisses.
A few moments later, Morton Rutherford entered the room; Lyle was still kneeling by the bedside; beside her was Leslie, quietly weeping. Ned’s eyes were suspiciously red, while in one corner, honest-hearted Mike was vainly trying to check his fast-flowing tears upon the sleeves of his blouse. Morton looked quickly toward the strangely altered face upon the pillows, and was struck by its wondrous beauty.
Glancing inquiringly at Houston, as he advanced to meet him, he asked anxiously:
“Is he worse?”
“No, there is no change yet, one way or another,” Houston replied in low tones, and continued, “Morton, we were speaking last night, at the cabin, of my uncle’s son,––my cousin, Guy Cameron.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“He is found,” Houston’s voice trembled, and he could say no more, but Morton understood. He gazed with new and tearful interest upon the beautiful face in its death-like calm; then beckoning to Houston, he said, as they passed from the room:
“Ah, you have at last found the key to the wondrous bond between you, and to his self-sacrificing love toward you and yours.”
For a few moments they recalled certain incidents in their acquaintance with the silent, yet gentle and courteous occupant of the little cabin, and much that had seemed mysterious was now clear and plain in the light of this recent revelation.