He staggered erect.
"Catharine! what does it mean? What does it mean?" he cried
hoarsely.
"_Your child_--" she half questioned, half affirmed.
"Mine? Mine?" he called, without human understanding in his voice.
"Oh, Catharine! Where did you get her?"
"The shores of Kootenay Lake," she answered.
"Was--was--she _alone_?" he cried.
The woman looked away, slowly shaking her head, and her voice was
very gentle as she replied: "No, she alive a little, but _the
other_, whose arms 'round her, she not alive; my people, the
Kootenay Indians, and I--we--we bury that other."
For a moment there was a speaking silence, the young Wingate, with
the blessed realization that half his world had been saved for him,
flung himself on his knees, and, with his arms locked about the
little girl, was calling:
"Margie! Margie! Papa's little Margie girl! Do you remember papa?
Oh, Margie! Do you? Do you?"
Something dawned in the child's eyes--something akin to a far-off
memory. For a moment she looked wonderingly at him, then put her
hand up to his forehead and gently pulled a lock of his fair hair
that always curled there--an old trick of hers. Then she looked
down at his vest pocket, slowly pulled out his watch and held it to
her ear.
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