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deal of trouble. Yellow Serpent came to me for advice and told me the same tales. My brother, I tremble for your safety."

Dr. Whitman sat in a large, leather-covered chair in the doctor's sitting-room. Dr. McLoughlin had risen and laid his hands upon his shoulders. Entreaty shone in his eyes and in every line of his noble countenance. " Listen to me," continued the governor. "Indians are not to be trifled with. Leave them. Come here and stay. By and by they will invite you back. Then you can go in safety."

The Indians seemed friendly; they had welcomed him back with joy. He could see no danger, and yet Dr. Whitman was not unmoved by his friend's solicitude. He recognized the motive of the generous heart that would shield him from possible harm, but he said: "I cannot leave, Doctor. My duty lies with the Indians. I cannot desert my post. I must stay and do what I can."

Dr. Whitman had risen. Two heroes stood face to face. The early sunset cast its slant shadows across the wall, lighting up the silver locks of the Father of Oregon, and resting in a halo on the brow of the future martyr. Catholic and Protestant, British and American, yet brothers in a common fidelity to God and humanity.

Yes, from her mission door Narcissa Whitman, watching on the Walla Walla, had heard the returning hoofbeats of that rider on the plains. From that door she saw the wagons rolling in, that were to turn the rocking balance forever in favor of her country. There were immigrants with a new-born babe in her bedroom, immigrants with four little children in the room east