CHAPTER XII
THE UPLIFT
"Mother!"
What more common and beautiful word than this, a mere symbol, the outward expression of the child heart within each of us. At any time it is full of deep meaning, but how greatly intensified when repeated by some suffering one in the dim morning hours, when "the casement slowly grows a glimmering square."
"Mother!"
Keith bent over the quiet form on the rude bunk. For hours he had anxiously awaited some sign of consciousness, and while the old man with the white hair slept on the floor, rolled up in his one blanket, he had kept watch.
"Mother, are you there?" and Joe's hand reached out into the air.
"Hush," soothed Keith. "You are safe, so go to sleep."
Joe opened his eyes and fixed them upon the missionary in a dreamy sort of a way, then closed them again, and soon passed off into a peaceful slumber.
Steadily the wounded man recovered under the careful treatment he received. The blankness, caused by the concussion, which at the first enwrapped his mind, rolled away as a dark cloud vanishes from the mountain's brow. Keith was much with him during the first few days. He knew the importance of keeping his mind filled with fresh, bright thoughts, and not allowing him to brood upon Pritchen and the terrible scene at the saloon. He told him stories of his experience among the Indians, and many of their quaint ways. At times Joe would laugh heartily at some amusing incident, and eagerly ask for more. Often Keith read to him a story from a book or an old magazine, and when it was finished they would discuss it together.