“Why?” he repeated slowly. “There was One who gave His life for me. Besides,” he added, after a pause, “there's a fair chance that I can get through.”
She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. “No, Barney, there's almost no chance, you know and I know, and I can't let you go now!” The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled him. Gravely, earnestly, his eyes searched her face and read her heart. Slowly the crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair face and neck. She buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand upon her head, stroking the golden hair. For some moments they remained thus, silent. Then, refusing to accept the confession of her word and look and act, he said, in a voice grave and kind and tender, “You expect me to do right, Margaret.”
A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of renunciation was being pressed to her lips. To the last drop she drained it, then raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright blue eyes looked into his bravely while she answered simply, “You will do what is right, Barney.”
Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in. “Didn't know you were so ill. Don't you come. I'm all right. 'Mexico.'” A rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness had evidently reached “Mexico,” and he would not have his friend risk his life for him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train was hours late, but a light engine ran up from the Crossing and brought the doctor down.
When he entered the sick man's room “Mexico” glanced into his face. “Good Lord, Doctor!” he cried, “you shouldn't have come! You're worse than me!”
“All right, 'Mexico,'” replied the doctor cheerfully. “I had to come, you know. We can't go back on our friends.”
“Mexico” kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's face. His lips began to tremble. He put out his hand and clutched the doctor's hard. “I know now,” he said hoarsely, “why He let 'em kill Him.”
“Why?”
“Couldn't go back on His friends, eh?”
“You've got it, 'Mexico,' old man. Pretty good, eh?”