"Not to us."
"No, not to you; but he told it to me."
"Who was the man, then, oh, please tell us!" and Constance rose to a sitting posture in her eagerness.
"Lassie," and Pete spoke very slowly, "I don't mind tellin' ye now; mebbe it's best ye should know. That chap was yer brother!"
If the prospector expected an outburst of lamentation at this announcement he was much disappointed. Startling though it was, father and daughter uttered not a word, but sat very still. The news was not altogether unexpected, for often had they discussed the matter when alone, and had reached the conclusion that it could be none other than Kenneth who had died in the cabin. And yet, mingled with this idea, there was the faint hope that they might be mistaken, and that their loved one some day would be given back to them. But now the last slender thread was snapped to which they had clung so long.
For a while Constance sat motionless on the couch, looking into Pete's face. But she saw him not, for her mind was elsewhere, drifting, drifting far away to other days. She did not notice when Mr. Radhurst left his seat and came close to her side. But when he put his arms tenderly around her, and drew her close to him, she awoke from her reverie. Then when she saw the pained look on her father's face, and the tears which were stealing down his faded cheeks, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed like a child.
For some time no one spoke, and Old Pete sat silently by, a sympathetic witness of the little scene. "It will do the lassie good," he said to himself. "If them tears hadn't come I'd be a-feered, jist as I would of a biler without any safety valve."
After awhile Constance dried her eyes and, turning to Pete, apologized for her emotion.
"But then, I know, you understand. Kenneth was so dear to us—and to think that we shall never see him again!"
"Don't say that, lassie. As ye are a Christian woman ye must believe that ye'll meet yer brother agin, when them pearly gates are opened. I was jist a-thinkin' how once I uster laugh at the idea of a future life. Says I to meself, an' to others, 'This life is enough fer me, so I'll have a good time now.' But as I growed older I began to see, an' it all come gradual like, that this life is only a trail after all. Now, ye see, we have nothin' but trails here, an' purty tough ones at that. By an' by thar'll be roads, an' then when them cities git built thar'll be paved streets. Then when us old pioneers walk on them fine, level highways we'll think of the time when only trails ran here, an' we'll be mighty proud to tell others that we've roughed it a bit. So, lassie, when mushin' over a hard trail, I says to meself that it's jist like life. Some day thar'll be the Holy City we read about, whar the streets are paved with gold, an' if we are to enjoy them thar we must be willin' fust to tramp the trails down here awhile. I know that larned men would laugh at this idea of mine, but I tell ye it's been a heap of comfort to me in my lonely life. But the parson'll tell ye all about it some day better'n I kin."