sed the scarred, brown
body of earth and warmed it. Life stirred within. The grass and the
little flowers took courage out of their very craving for life and
pushed resolutely forth. And, lo! The miracle was accomplished! The
world was born again!

Cynthe Cardinal was coming up Beaver Run on her way back to French
Village. She had been to put the first flowers of the Spring on the
grave of Rafe Gadbeau, where Father Ponfret had blessed the ground for
him and they had laid him, there under the sunny side of the Gaunt
Rocks that had given him his last breathing space that he might die in
peace. They had put him here, for there was no way in that time to
carry him to the little cemetery in French Village. And Cynthe was
well satisfied that it was so. Here, under the Gaunt Rocks, she would
not have to share him with any one. And she would not have to hear
people pointing out the grave to each other and to see them staring.

The water tumbling down the Run out of the hills sang a glad,
uproarious song, as is the way of all brooks at their beginnings,
concerning the necessity of getting down as swiftly as possible to the
big, wide life of the sea. The sea would not care at all if that brook
never came down to it. But the brook did not know that. Would not have
believed it if it had been told.

And Cynthe hummed herself, a sad little song of old Beaupre--which
she had never seen, for Cynthe was born here in the hills. Cynthe was
sad, beyond doubt; for here was the mating time, and-- But Cynthe was
not unhappy. The Good God was still in his Heaven, and still good.
Life beckoned. The breath of air was sweet. There was work in the
world to do. And--when all was said and done--Rafe Gadbeau was in
Heaven.

As she left the Run and was crossing up to the divide she met Jeffrey
Whiting coming down. He had been over in the Wilbur's Fork country and
was returning home. He stopped and showed that he was anxious to talk
with her. Cynthe was not averse. She was ever a chatty, sociable
little person, and, besides, for some time she had had it in mind that
she would some day take occasion to say a few pertinent things to this
scowling young gentleman with the big face.

"You're with Ruth Lansing a lot, aren't you?" he said, after some
verbal beating about the bush; "how is she?"

"Why don't you come see, if you want to know?" retorted Cynthe
sharply.

Jeffrey had no ready answer. So Cynthe went on:

"If you wanted to know why didn