She had sadly missed it all out of her own
strange life, and she felt she _must_ live until this youngest
daughter grew to be a woman. Perhaps this desire, this mother-love,
kept her longer beside her children than she would have stayed
without it, for the years rolled on, and her hair whitened, her
once springing step halted a little, the glorious blue of her
English eyes grew very dreamy, and tender, and wistful. Was she
seeing the great Hereafter unfold itself before her as her steps
drew nearer and nearer?
And one night the Great Messenger knocked softly at her door,
and with a sweet, gentle sigh she turned and followed where he
led--joining gladly the father of her children in the land that
holds both whites and Indians as one.
And the daughter who writes the verses her mother always felt, but
found no words to express, never puts a last line to a story, or a
sweet cadence into a poem, but she says to herself as she holds her
mother's memory within her heart:
"She knows--she knows."
Catharine of the "Crow's Nest"
The great transcontinental railway had been in running order for
years before the managers thereof decided to build a second line
across the Rocky Mountains.
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