Rose darted into the saloon, and snatching a decanter of whiskey, saturated her handkerchief with it. As she ran she rubbed the rouge from her face. She passed the little procession, and reaching her cabin made preparations for the man’s coming. That done, she dug into a trunk, taking from it a much-crumpled dress. Hastily she put it on.
The unconscious man was laid on the bed, and in a few minutes the doctor came. He gazed at Rose astounded. She was garbed in the habit of a novitiate of a nursing sisterhood.
“What the——” he began. She interrupted him, and underneath her flippancy the man saw real misery.
“It’s Sister Rose now,” the woman said. “I shed my sins with my scenery. Get me?”
The doctor nodded. Carefully he tended the wounded man.
“There is nothing we can do,” he said at length. “He is dying.”
“Suits me, Doc,” said Rose.
He left, and the woman sat quietly by the bed, her face set, her body tense, waiting. In a little while the man opened his eyes, and she saw that he knew her. She leaned over and lifted him into her arms. His head rested on her thin bosom.
“Little Sister, is it true?” he said in a whisper. “I dream so much. Every night and every night I dream that I have found you. I have hunted for you so long, Little Sister; everywhere; up and down the whole world.” His voice died out.
When he spoke again it was with an effort. “The other woman ... she didn’t count. When you left I went mad.” He raised himself with a burst of strength, his face distorted. “It was the uncertainty, the uncertainty! You were so little,” he muttered. “I have looked for you,” he repeated, drearily, “everywhere up and down the whole world.”