She did not care especially, except for one thing. The light! She ought not lose sight of its faint gleam. Some tiny spark of memory kept reminding her that she must never take her eyes away from the far-off glow of the lantern. So that, sinking, she kept pulling herself feebly back toward its faint gleam with “Will . . . Mack . . . Margaret . . . John . . . Isabelle.” She told the words over as a nun touches her beads.

Her mind was not lucid enough to understand that through constant utterance, she was trying to pray that she might come back to her responsibility,—that she had so much to do yet for the family,—that they could not get along without her. Over and over, she said them, “Will . . . Mack . . . Margaret . . . John . . . Isabelle.” Each name a bead—each bead a prayer. And when her mind cleared a little, and she heard a strange new wail, she remembered a new responsibility and said them over again, “Will . . . Mack . . . Margaret . . . John . . . Isabelle . . . the baby.” Each name a bead,—each bead a prayer. Fighting the icy waters feebly, with only the thought of the light to keep them from closing over her, she came back at times to the consciousness of the homely red face of Christine by her bed, nodding, jerking up, nodding——

And when the light grew clearer and more steady and the cold water seemed gone, Will told her that the baby was a girl.

“We’ll name her Grace,” Abbie said feebly, “Grace of God. She’ll be a comfort. She’ll stay with us longer . . . maybe . . . than a boy. Where’s Christine, Will?”

Christine Reinmueller came in to stand by the bed, her short shapeless body in a blue calico dress, her greasy little tight braids of hair wound flat from ear to ear, her fat red face scarred with scratches.

Abbie reached up and pulled her down. Arms close around her, she kissed her rough cheek. “Christine . . . my friend . . . my friend for all my life.”

Christine writhed in embarrassment, “Ach! Du sans garrich . . . voolish.” She pulled away. “Es ist nix . . . nossing.”

It seemed odd to Abbie to have a baby again after ten years. Sometimes she said she was afraid she had forgotten how to care for one. But when she grew strong, it all came back to her. The Abbie Deals do not forget.

Margaret graduated from the academy in the spring of that year. Fred Baker, the minister’s nephew, who was to be a full-fledged doctor in one more year, arrived in time for the graduating exercises, and brought her a stereoscope with views of “Niagara Falls,” “Hudson Bay by Moonlight,” “The Wedding Party,” and several others with subtle suggestions of a romantic nature. Margaret rode home in the lumber-wagon with the stereoscopic views in her lap and her head somewhere beyond the prairie clouds.