"You are two fine, brave, splendid men. I'm proud to have known you, to have called you my friends."
The lines about Bill's mouth twitched and all he could say was, "Same here, Parson," and he walked away to the fire.
Wah-na-gi had gone to the window, as if to look out at the storm, but really to hide her tears. McShay glanced at her and Bill furtively, then he sat down on the stool, and bent down over the sick man and spoke for his ear alone: "And say, Parson, just before comin' over this time, I—I—sold out my liquor business. Thought maybe it would please you, and somehow couldn't think of anything else that would."
A smile spread over the wan face.
"Oh, thank you, Mike. Thank you. Perhaps I haven't lived in vain."
"Anything we kin do fer you while we're gone?" asked Bill, not turning, but gazing deep into the fire. "Any letters, or telegrams, or messages you want to trust us with?"
"No, Bill, thank you. There is just one thing troubles me, and only one—this dear child." He nodded his head in the direction of the window where she was standing weeping. "She's made such a noble fight, against such frightful odds, she mustn't go back; she mustn't be allowed to give up or be forced into the old environment. She must be saved."
"Say, Parson, rest your mind easy about that," said Mike earnestly. "She ain't agoin' to want a friend while Bill or me lives. Ain't that right, Bill?"
"It sure is, Mike."
"That's all," said the sick man with a sigh of relief. "And now I'm ready to go." He meant for the long, long journey.