“He is sinking, failing rapidly,” they said, “to-night will be the crisis, the turning point; unless there is a change then for the better, he will never see the dawning of another day.”
To Mrs. Cameron, journeying westward with Morton Rutherford, the moments had seemed like hours, the hours like days, since learning for whose sake had come the summons to that distant country. Only the speed of the lightning could have satisfied the heart of the mother hastening to her long-lost son.
They had been kept informed along the route of Guy’s condition, and now, upon their arrival at Silver City, on the noon train, they found a special car awaiting them, to convey them at once to the Y, which had been ordered by telegraphic dispatch from Mr. Cameron.
The watchers by the bedside heard the sound of swiftly approaching wheels; Mr. Cameron and Houston stepped quickly out to greet the sweet-faced woman hastening toward the house on the arm of Morton Rutherford.
“Am I in time? Is our boy still living?” were her first words, as her husband met her with outstretched arms, his face working with deep emotion.
“Just in time, thank God!” was the broken reply.
“Oh, Walter, is there no hope?” she queried, understanding his words only too well.
“I must not deceive you, Marjorie, there is the barest possibility that he may live, no more.”
“He must live, and he will,” replied the mother, in tones that reminded both Houston and Morton Rutherford wonderfully of Lyle.
Turning toward Houston, Mrs. Cameron greeted him affectionately, and gently touching the wounded arm, exclaimed: