The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1890-02-28

and caring for Rivers when he ought to
be doing so. But he asked no questions,
and waited for the doctors answer.
''Just keep the camp quiet, Bill, and
| Miss Lancaster will give the medicine
and see to the rest. He is worn out with
excitement, and a little quiet, with good
nursing, will make things right. If the
fever is no better in six hours let me
know" And that was all the explana-
tion Bill got from the doctor.
Was she professional nurse? Bill
guessed SO. And he thought how nice it
would be if he could be sick when Rivers
got well.
The camp was still-Bill had ordered
it so-and every man asked how the
''tenderfoot" was, and about the gal"
Dunno" was all the answer they got
to the latter question, and Bill told all he
knew when he said tint.
Rivers was in a serious condition, and
before the six hours were up horseman
:,zG!!se2! osst. CT cs..Ip and after q doctor
1t was Ute Bill. He could not stand by
and see him toss back and forth in bed.
1t was too much. He wasn't used to it.
The doctor had to make another trip
Bill said Rivers was worse.
When the doctor had made an exami-
nation of his patient he declared the worst
was passed, and left Rivers sleeping
quietly under a gentle narcotic.
All this time the girl had not released
her watch by the bedside, and she seemed
to be soothing away the delirium of the
fever in gently passing her hands over
| the sick mans temples Her eyes never
left off their watch of every movement
of the ''tenderfoot's" face, and Bill stood
by wonderingly casting furtive glance
at the delicately featured face bending
over his spard's pillow, and trying to solve
| the problem in his mind
Hours passed, and finally, with long
sigh, Rivers opened his eyes and looked
at Bill leaning over the foot of the bed
Then his wandering attention was fixed
on the anxious face by his side. There
was no glad cry of recognition-it was a
mutual understanding, All the warmth
OF his great love was expressed in the
gently whispered name Lillian" as he
drew her face to his Resting her head
on his shoulders, she told him of the
long years of waiting for tidings from
him and the hasty letter from Omaha,
which she had only received a few days
before. She had left home. friends,
everything, and gone TO seek him in the
wild west. she knew not where, but she
had found him. And Bill had disap-
peared.
a few days afterward one of the
"pards" gave up his claim to the little
cabin, and the minister said the cere-
mony which linked two lives into a
world of their own.
Many and hearty were the rough con-
gratulations. That evening the miners
gathered at the little home to say word
of welcome to the beautiful young bride.
Even if it were spoken by a big, rowdy
miner like Bill, there was a genuine
ring of manliness about it. and made her
feel quite at home in the wild, pictur-
esque spot so far from every sign of
civilization AS the men filed out slowly
Rivers conducted his girl wife to the
porch of the rude cabin, and, standing
close by his side, she sang one verse of
Homo, Sweet Home" The tender,
sympathetic voice fell on the still night
air with a wonderful sweetness, and
awakened many old memories in the
hearts of the rough, coarse miners
gathered there.
Heads were uncovered and there were
tears wiped hastily away as Bill led
them to the saloon. Was there rough
talking and coarse jests now? No. As
each man raised his glass solemn hush
fell upon the group, broken at last by
Ute Bills voice. 1t was choked and I'M
natural.
Boys" he said, 81 never he'd but one
pard, but l give him up to the best pard
man ever got. And I'll never hev an
other till get one like his"
Bill set his glass down and walked
away abruptly. 1t was not long until
.f11
hushed in the repose of night.
After that Bill did not seem like his
old self. He was quiet and solemn. He
knew what was the matter, but did not
care to let the boys know where the sun
shine had fallen on his rough heart and
then so suddenly been swept away.
The next spring came, and the doctor
made another trip to the little cabin.
When Ute Bill went up the next day
Rivers led him into the dainty bedroom
and gave him peep at the tiny baby
girl that had come that night. The big
rough hand closed tightly over the one
OF more delicate mold that was laid in
his, and the two men understood each
other. There we're tears in Bills eyes
and an ache in his heart which no one
but Rivers should ever know as he turned
silently away.
The miners gathered again in the sa-
loon to drink to the health of the mother
and child, and hear Bill, now glowing
with animation, tell about the baby and
its queer ways until they all wanted to
see the youngster. A vote was taken,
and the camp was to be christened after
the baby, and Bill had forgotten to ask
her name. Away he went, and soon re-
turned. He looked sheepish and finally
came forward and said:
boys, yer got me this time. THEY'VE
called her 'Utellar as near my name as
they couh get, and it's my layout.
What'll ye hev;"
The classes clinked merrily, and Mr..
Bill beamed with happiness.
Not day passed that Bill did not visit
the cottage, and as the wee babe grew to
toddling, lisping girl, Bill was her chief
ssympathizer, and the bows in camp at
last called him "Uncle Bill"
"There's no harm in me lovin' her."
he said one day as he stroked the curly
brown head nestled against his breast;
"the other wasn't for me-" And Rivers
glanced up quickly at Bill, and then to
his wife, who was sitting by the door
way with her dainty fingers busy in
mending little frock.
at was before | knew"-and Bill swal-
lowed the big lump rising in his throat
and tried to go on, but his voice broke
and he trembled in the vain effort to sup
press his emotion. Rising suddenly lie
left the cabin.
That was years ago. The mining camp
has disappeared and only the lonely cot
tage marks the spot where it once stood.
Stanley Rivers lives with his wife and
dark eyed girl in an eastern city and en-