“God bless us,” laughed the Colonel, “it’s so human of us to miss the worth-while things that might be secured by simply reaching out for them. Here you good people have been for years, and over there I have been for years—lonely, God knows, and hungry for such companionship as I am now enjoying. And to think—to think that I have not understood until now!”
So the Colonel stayed at Big McTavish’s and all the Bushwhackers came over in the evening to make merry, and make merry they did, for had they not reason to be glad?
And after the neighbors had gone Big McTavish sat with Hallibut before the fire and they talked of Gloss’s mother until the purple glow of another spring morning bored its way through the fragrant wood-mists. The Colonel sat with bowed head while McTavish told the story of the brave little woman he had known in Arizona; how she had endeared the rough cattlemen to her; how unwavering and unselfish she had been; and finally how she had intended to come to live with his family in the new Canadian Wild, and how they had looked for her coming in vain!
At the conclusion of his narrative the Colonel sat caressing a little gold locket. The tears were running down his seamed cheeks.
“I used to think that God made fewer noble men and women than He did dogs,” he said huskily, “but I don’t think that now. He made you and your wife, McTavish. I can’t thank you for what you have done. I know my thanks don’t count anyway. But, look here, I have always been a rich man, and, Mac, if I were asked to choose between this new happiness I’ve lately found and all my lands and money, d’ye know which I would choose?”
McTavish smiled.
“Us bush-folks believe that best and most lastin’ joys are always close to us and easy found,” he said.
Hallibut arose and paced to and fro across the room.
“McTavish,” he said abruptly, “I know the man who sent little Gloss to you.”
Big McTavish looked up quickly.