"You have shown me the way. I have peace."
"Speak for me in the Presence," said Sherburne softly.
The dying man could not answer, but that moment, as he journeyed forth on the Far Trail, he held Sherburne's hand.
THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN
"Why don't she come back, father?"
The man shook his head, his hand fumbled with the wolf-skin robe covering the child, and he made no reply. "She'd come if she knew I was hurted, wouldn't she?"
The father nodded, and then turned restlessly toward the door, as though expecting someone. The look was troubled, and the pipe he held was not alight, though he made a pretence of smoking.
"Suppose the wild cat had got me, she'd be sorry when she comes, wouldn't she?"
There was no reply yet, save by gesture, the language of primitive man; but the big body shivered a little, and the uncouth hand felt for a place in the bed where the lad's knee made a lump under the robe. He felt the little heap tenderly, but the child winced.
"S-sh, but that hurts! This wolf-skin's most too much on me, isn't it, father?"