thing to eat, and after that you must have a good sleep.”
The trapper looked up wearily into the old man’s face. The missionary’s interest and sympathy touched him deeply. For the time, he was no longer the great strong Hugo of the trail, a modern Esau, with his heart against every man, except the unfortunate. He was as a child, tired out, ready to rest.
After Hugo had eaten the simple meal, the missionary conducted him to the room where he had taken Bill, the Slugger, the night before.
“There is a good bed,” he told him. “It has not been slept on for some time. The man who stayed here last night was suffering too much to sleep. He left before I was up.”
“Who was that?” Hugo asked.
“I do not know his name. But he had a bad leg, which he said he injured on the trail. I did what I could for him, but it gave him no relief. Anyway, he was able to travel and carry with him my entire stock of provisions, and all the money I had.”
“What! did he steal them?” Hugo asked in surprise.
“Yes, but, then, perhaps, he needed them more than I did. If he had only asked me, I would gladly have given him food, and money, too, for that matter.”
Hugo was about to question further, but refrained, and stretched himself out upon the bed. Carefully and almost tenderly the missionary covered him with thick blankets, closed the door and went back to his table and writing.
All through the day the trapper slept, and was only aroused by the sound of the bell outside. Wondering what it could mean, he quickly rose, went to the door and looked out. Then he understood, so closing the
