“I’m going to put a cot in the mess room and sleep in there to-night,” he told her. “You may need me.”
It was after midnight when she called him. McGill found the little patient’s fever high. He listened to Barbara’s labored breathing and counted her pulse.
When he looked up, he found Mrs. St. Clair watching him anxiously. He knew from her eyes that she shared his fear—the fear that Barbara might have pneumonia. McGill had helped the doctor fight several cases of the disease in those mountains. They had generally been losing fights, but he set to work.
The big, hobnailed boots of the men fell softly on the rough floors as their wearers slipped in for breakfast. They had prepared it themselves and ate it silently. During the meal McGill came in. He looked worried and did not eat. After they had finished the men waited for him to speak.
“It’s pneumonia,” he said briefly.
That was all. Soon the men slipped off quietly to the mine, and McGill went back to Barbara.
By night Barbara was delirious.
“It looks bad,” McGill admitted to the men. “She is fretting over that cat.”
When Barbara came to the Little Bear Mine, she had brought with her a small Maltese kitten, her dearest possession. The death of the little kitten a week before had been the greatest tragedy in her young life.
After supper the men tried to work on their presents, but somehow the work dragged. The hours passed, but the men did not leave the mess room. Toward midnight McGill came out to them. “Mrs. St. Clair says you had better come in now if you want to see her. She’s—she’s going!”