"I know something is wrong," went on Trudeau; "for I tell her it ben très dangéreuse to wear deerskin zhaquette in zese wood' in shooting seasone. I turn zhaquette red out. She go toward your camp. I watch. I see her turn heem hair out. I tell you, messieurs, zat man want to go home in wooden ove'coat. She have hungaire to die."
"Here's a letter we found in his pocket," said the young man. "Look at it, Colonel."
The colonel looked, saw his daughter's name, remembered the familiar look in the white, agonized, pitiful face; and saw the whole situation as by some baleful flash-light.
"Good God! Good God!" he cried. "It's Van Dorn! Get things ready to carry him in his bed to the car—quick, Johnson! And get to the wire as soon as you can. Have Tibbals bring Gwennie—Mrs. Van Dorn—to Duluth. Wire the hospital there! You know what's needed—look after things right, Johnson, for I think—I think—I'm going mad, old man!"
Mrs. Van Dorn ran into her father's arms in the hospital anteroom. Through mazes of frenzied anxiety she felt an epoch open in her life with that embrace from the father who had put her out of his life for ever, as they thought.
"Dear, dear papa!" she whispered, "let me go to Foster, quick!"
"Not just now, Gwennie, little girl," said he, patting her shoulder. "He's asleep. Did you bring the—the baby?"
"No, no! I thought—but Foster?" cried Gwendolyn. "Will he—will he—"
"He'll live, by Heaven!" cried the colonel. "I fired one fool for hinting that he wouldn't; and now they're all sure he'll pull through. Why, he's got to live, Gwennie!"