morning at daybreak,
when the valley on the other side was a sea of mist that threw soft,
clinging spray to the very mountain tops--for even above the mists, that
morning, its mighty head arose, sole visible proof that the earth still
slept beneath. He had seen it at noon--but little less majestic, among
the oaks that stood about it; had seen it catching the last light at
sunset, clean-cut against the after-glow, and like a dark, silent,
mysterious sentinel guarding the mountain pass under the moon. He had
seen it giving place with sombre dignity to the passing burst of spring,
had seen it green among dying autumn leaves, green in the gray of winter
trees and still green in a shroud of snow--a changeless promise that the
earth must wake to life again. It had been the beacon that led him into
Lonesome Cove--the beacon that led June into the outer world. From it
her flying feet had carried her into his life--past it, the same feet
had carried her out again. It had been their trysting place--had
kept their secrets like a faithful friend and had stood to him as the
changeless symbol of their love. It had stood a mute but sympathetic
witness of his hopes, his despairs and the struggles that lay between
them. In dark hours it had been a silent comforter, and in the last year
it had almost come to symbolize his better self as to that self he came
slowly back. And in the darkest hour it was the last friend to whom he
had meant to say good-by. Now it was gone. Always he had lifted his eyes
to it every morning when he rose, but now, next morning, he hung back
consciously as one might shrink from looking at the face of a dead
friend, and when at last he raised his head to look upward to it, an
impenetrable shroud of mist lay between them--and he was glad.

And still he could not leave. The little creek was a lashing yellow
torrent, and his horse, heavily laden as he must be, could hardly swim
with his weight, too, across so swift a stream. But mountain streams
were like June's temper--up quickly and quickly down--so it was noon
before he plunged into the tide with his saddle-pockets over one
shoulder and his heavy transit under one arm. Even then his snorting
horse had to swim a few yards, and he reached the other bank soaked to
his waist line. But the warm sun came out just as he entered the woods,
and as he climbed, the mists broke about him and scudded upward
like white sails before a driving wind. Once he looked back from a
"f