Then she turned to Dave, and her earnest eyes were full of almost humble entreaty.
"You won't refuse me, Dave?" she said. "I feel I must go. I feel that some one, some strange voice, is calling to me to go. That my presence there is needed. I am only a woman, and in these big schemes of yours it is ridiculous to think that I should play a part. Yet somehow—somehow——Oh, Dave, won't you let me help, if only in this small way? It will be something for me to look back upon when you have succeeded; something for me to cherish, this thought that I have helped you even in so small a way. You won't refuse me. It is so little to you, and it means so—so much to me."
Her uncle was watching the grave face of the lumberman; and when she finished he waited, smiling, for the effect of her appeal.
It was some moments before Dave answered. Betty's eyes were shining with eager hope, and at last her impatience got the better of her.
"You said 'yes' once to-night," she urged softly.
Her uncle's smile broadened. He was glad the onus of this thing was on the broad shoulders of his friend.
"Betty," said Dave at last, looking squarely into her eyes, "will you promise me to keep to the sick camps, and not go about amongst the 'jacks' who aren't sick without your uncle?"
There was something in the man's eyes which made the girl drop hers suddenly. She colored slightly, perhaps with vexation. She somehow felt awkward. And she had never felt awkward with Dave in her life before. However, she answered him gladly.
"I promise—promise willingly."
"Then I'll not go back on my promise. Go and get ready, little girl," he said gently.