ine; the maddened rush of the tossing, frothing, whirling rapids
seething like melted gold as the western radiance smote the bubbling
surface; the scarlet flakes of foliage clinging to the trees on Goat
Island, and far above, on the wooded height beyond, the picturesque
outlines of the Convent, lifting its belfry against the azure sky. As
doomed swimmers lost in those rapids, swept head downward to
destruction, nearing the last wild plunge catch the glimmer of that
consecrated tower held aloft, so to Beryl's eyes it now seemed a symbol
of comfort; and faith once more girded her.

A woman wearing a blue plaid handkerchief tied over her head and
knotted under her chin, and carrying a basket of red apples on one arm,
while with the other she led a lowing cow along the dusty road, paused
at a signal, in front of the gray clad stranger.

"Which is the Museum?"

"Yonder, where the goats are huddled."

The building was closed, but in those days a garden lay to the north of
it; and a small gate that gave admittance to seats and flowers
connected with the Museum, now stood open.

The walks were strewn with pale yellow poplar leaves, and bordered with
belated pink hollyhocks, and crimson chrysanthemums blighted by frost,
shivering in their death chill; and from a neighboring willow stripped
of curtaining foliage, a lonely bird piped its plaintive threnody, for
the loss of one summer's mate. At the extremity of the little garden,
under shelter of an ancient, gnarled tree, that screened a semicircular
seat from the observation of those passing on the street, Beryl sat
down to rest; to collect her thoughts.

In the solitude, she threw back her veil, leaned her head against the
trunk of the tree where wan lichens made a pearly cushion, and shut her
eyes. The afternoon was wearing away; a keen wind shook the bare
boughs; only the ceaseless, unchanging chant of waters rose from the
vast throat of nature, invoking its God.

She heard no footsteps; but some strange current attacked her veins,
thrilled along her nerves, strung as taut as the wires of a harp, and
starting up she became aware that a man was standing on the clover
sward close to her. A dark brown overcoat, a broad brimmed, soft wool
hat, drawn as a mask down to the bridge of the nose, and a bare hand
covering the mouth, was all she saw.

Stretching out her arms, she sprang to meet him:

"O Bertie! At last! At last!"

The figure drew back slightly, lifted his hat;