"Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's talkin' about the Head? The Head, is it? An' d'ye think I'd sthand-- Howly Moses! here she comes, an' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside her!"
"Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you are looking remarkably well to-day," cried the matron, her brisk step, bright face, and cheery voice eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit.
"Och! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your prisince?" said the gallant little Irishman, with a touch to his hat. "Sure, it's better than the sunlight to see the smile av yer pritty face."
"Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'll have to be sending you away if you go on like that. It's a sure sign of convalescence when an Irishman begins to blarney."
"Blarney, indade! Bedad, it's God's mercy I don't have to blarney, for I haven't the strength to do that same."
"Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength for getting well again. Ben, I think I saw Mr. Boyle riding up. Will you please go and take his horse and show him up to the office. I am just wanting his help in preparing my annual report."
"Report!" cried Ben. "A day like this! No, sez I; git out into the woods an' git a little colour into yer cheeks. It'll do him good, too. This' ere hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh."
And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and wrath at the matron's inability to take thought for herself.
The tiny office was bare enough of beauty, but from the window there stretched a scene glorious in its majestic sweep and in its varied loveliness. Down over the tops of second-growth jack pine and Douglas fir one looked straight into the roaring gorge of the Goat River filled with misty light and overhung with an arching rainbow. Up the other side climbed the hills in soft folds of pine tops and, beyond the pines, to the sheer, grey, rocky peaks in whose clefts and crags the snow lay like fretted silver. Far up the valley to the east the line of the new railway gleamed here and there through the pines, while to the west the Goat River gorge issued into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay Valley, forest-clad and lying now in all the sunlit glory of its new spring dress.
For some moments Dick stood gazing. "Of all views I see, this is the best," he said. "Day or night I can get it clear as I see it now, and it always brings me rest and comfort."
"Rest and comfort?" echoed Margaret, coming to his side. "Yes, I understand that, especially with the sunlight upon it. But at night, Dick, with the moon high above that peak there and filling with its light all the valleys, do you know, I hardly dare look at it long."
"I understand," replied Dick, slowly. "Barney used to say the same about the moonlight on the view from the hillcrest above the Mill."
Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, nearest thought with each was Barney. It was always Barney. Resolutely they refused to allow the name to reach their lips except at rare intervals, but each knew how the thought of him lurked in the heart, ready to leap into full view with every deeper throb.
"Come, this won't do," said Margaret, almost sharply.
"No, it won't do," replied Dick, each reading the thought in the other's heart.
"I am struggling with my report," said Margaret in a business-like tone. "What shall I say? How shall I begin?"
"Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll tell them things that will make them sit up. What copy there would be in it for the Daily Telegraph! The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming stream of maimed and wounded, of sick and lonely, the outgoing stream healed and hopeful, and all singing the praises of the Lady of Kuskinook."
"Hush, Dick," said Margaret softly. "You are forgetting the man who travels the lonely trails to the camps and up the gulches for the sick and wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back and his own, too, watches by them and prays with them, who yarns to them and sings to them till they forget their homesickness, which is the sickness the hospital cannot cure."
"Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give it up. The best part of this report will be that that is never written, except on the hearts and in the lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady of Kuskinook any time they happen to be saying their prayers."
"Tell me, Dick, what shall I say?"
"Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so many--"
"What an awful lot there were, two hundred and twenty-seven of them!"
"Yes," replied Dick. "But think of what there would have been but for that man, Bailey! He's a wonder! He has organized the camps upon a sanitary basis, brought in good water from the hills, established hospitals, and all that sort of thing."
"So you've got it, too," said Margaret, with a smile.
"Got what?"
"Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the general manager, Mr. Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, it seems to have gone everywhere."
"Is that so?" replied Dick, laughing. "Well, there are some who have escaped the tin-horn gang and the whiskey runners. Or rather, they've got it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill him."
"And yet they say he is--"
"Oh, I know. He does gamble, and when he gets going he's a terror.
But he's down on the whiskey and on the 'red lights.' You remember the big fight at Bull Crossing? It was Bailey pulled me out of that hole. The Pioneer was slating me, Colonel Hilliers, the town site agent, was fighting me, withdrew his offer of a site for our church unless I'd leave the 'red lights' alone, and went everywhere quoting the British army in India against me. Even my own men, church members, mind you, one of them an elder, thought I should attend to my own business. These people were their best customers.
