ng; I'm--happy!"

"My--sweetheart!" Again Truedale pressed his lips to hers.

"Us-all calls sweetheart--'doney-gal'!"

"My--my doney-gal, then!"

"And"--the words came muffled, for Truedale was holding her still--"and
always I shall see your face, now. It came to-day like it came long ago.
It will always come and make me glad."

Truedale lifted her from his breast and held her at arms' length. He
looked deep into her eyes, trying to pierce through her ignorance and
childishness to find the elusive woman that could meet and bear its part
in what lay before. Long they gazed at each other--then the light in
Nella-Rose's face quivered--her mouth drooped.

"I'm going now," she said, "going till Jim White comes back."

"Wait--my--"

But the girl had slipped from his grasp; she was gone into the misty,
threatening grayness that had closed in about them while love had
carried them beyond their depths. Then the rain began to fall--heavy,
warning drops. The wind, too, was rising sullenly like a monster roused
from its sleep and slowly gathering power to vent its rage.

Into this darkening storm Nella-Rose fled unheedingly. She was not
herself--not the girl of the woods, wise in mountain lore; she was
bewitched and half mad with the bewildering emotions that, at one moment
frightened her--the next, carried her closer to the spiritual than she
had ever been.

CHAPTER VII

Alone in his cabin, Truedale was conscious of a sort of groundless
terror that angered him. The storm could not account for it--he had the
advantage of ignorance there! Certainly his last half-hour could not be
responsible for his sensations. He justified every minute of it by terms
as old as man's desires and his resentment of restrictions. "Our lives
are our own!" he muttered, setting to work to build a fire and to light
the lamp. "They will all come around to my way of seeing things when I
have made good and taken her back to them!"

Still this arguing brought no peace, and more and more Truedale found
himself relying upon Jim White's opinions. In that troubled hour the
sheriff stood like a rugged sign post in the path. One unflinching
finger pointed to the past; the other--to the future.

"Well! I've chosen," thought Truedale; "it's the new way and--thank
God!" But he felt that the future could be made possible or miserable by
Jim's favour or disapproval.

Having decided to follow upon White's counsel, Truedale mentally prayed
for his