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to trouble me again. I have something very important to say to him."

"Then wait till we get to Oregon. We must go back to camp at once. It is time all honest folks were at home in bed."

They found Mrs. Ranger sitting alone on a wagontongue, shivering in the sharp night air.

"I 'm very ill, my daughter," she said; "dangerously so. I Ve been watching and waiting for you the past half-hour. Where have you been?"

"She's been pommelling a little common-sense into my addled noddle," said Mrs. McAlpin.

"I Ve been taking a little walk with Mrs. McAlpin, mother dear, that's all. But what's the matter, mother? Where's daddie?"

"Asleep, poor man. I don't want him disturbed. Get me the bottle of 'Number Six.' There!" taking a draught of the fiery liquid. "I'll soon be better. Go to bed."

Jean never could forgive herself for not sounding an alarm. During the remainder of the short summer night Mrs. Ranger wrestled with her fate, suffering and unattended. The heavy breathing of the weary oxen as they slept, or the low chewing of their cuds in the silence, the occasional hoot of an owl, or the sharp scream of a belated eagle, the sighing of the wind in the juniper-trees, and the acute pangs of her suffering body occupied her half conscious thoughts as she patiently awaited the dawn, which broke at last, spreading over earth and sky the radiance of approaching sunrise.

"John dear, come quickly; I 'm very sick, and I believe I 'm dying!" cried the lone sufferer at last.

Her husband was instantly aroused.

"Why didn't you call me long ago, darling?" he asked, crawling from beneath a tent and rubbing his eyes to accustom them to the light. A deadly fear blanched his cheeks as his wife fell back in convulsions in his arms.