"But you mustn't die," answered poor Phil, who was so bewildered by the perplexities of the situation that he knew not what to say. "I have two companions who will know what to do for you, and we will stay until you get stronger. What does it all mean, anyway? Are you wounded? Did that Indian attack you?"
"He was my husband, my Jim," whispered the woman, again opening her eyes, which had closed wearily after her recent effort at talking. "He died for me, and I am dying for him."
Here she was interrupted by a terrible fit of coughing, and a gush of blood from some internal hemorrhage.
After a few minutes she continued: "He shot a moose, and with its last strength it charged on him. When he did not come home I went in search of him. I found them lying together. Jim still breathed. Somehow I managed to bring him home on my back. But he was dead when I got him here, and the strain had been too great for me. I had burst a blood vessel, and had barely strength to crawl to the bed. That was two days ago. I should have died that first night, but fought with death for Nel-te's sake. Now I can go, and I am glad, for I am so weary—so weary."
This pitiful story was told in whispers, with many pauses and many struggles for breath. When it was finished the great pleading eyes again closed, and the woman lay so still that Phil thought she must be dead. He tried to feel of her pulse, but started at the touch of her hand, for it was like ice. The chill of it seemed to reach his very heart, and he shivered in the deadly cold of the room.
"I can at least make a fire," he thought, and he began to search for matches. There were none, and finally bethinking himself of the blaze he had left in the woods he set forth to fetch fire from it. In a few minutes he returned with a couple of burning brands. Then he brought in wood, and, after a little the great fireplace was filled with leaping flames.
Nel-te came to him and begged for water. Phil had noticed several times that the child was eating snow, and now berated himself for not realizing that the little fellow was thirsty. He melted snow in a kettle, and the boy drank eagerly. Then from some hiding-place he produced a smoked salmon that he began to eat ravenously. After a little he paused, looked hesitatingly at Phil, and then shyly, but with inborn hospitality, held out the fish to his guest, saying: "You hungry?"
"Indeed I am, little chap," answered Phil, who was just remembering how very hungry he was, "and I shall be only too glad to take a bite with you." So he cut off a piece of the fish, and as the two ate their strange meal in company Phil knew that the little stranger had won his heart; for never had he felt so drawn to any child as to this one.
While they were thus engaged, the woman again unclosed her eyes, and made a slight movement. Phil held a cup of water to her lips, and she drank thirstily. It seemed to give her strength, for she said:
"You have not promised me, lad. But you will— I know you will; for God has sent you in answer to my prayers. You will care for my baby, and try to love him, and never let him forget his mother. You will promise, and I know I can trust you, for you have a brave face and honest. You will promise me?"