sad a plight. I think if your uncle had known, he'd
have helped you."

"Mel, I couldn't ask anybody for help," said Lane. "Don't you
understand that?"

"You were a stubborn fellow," mused Mel.

"Me? Never. I'm the meekest of mortals.... Mel, I know every rock
along the river here. This is just above where at flood time the
Sycamore cuts across that rocky flat below, and makes a bad rapid.
There's a creek above and a big woods. I used to fish and hunt there a
good deal."

Two weeks passed by and Daren felt himself slowly but surely getting
stronger. Every morning when he came down to breakfast he felt a
little better, had a little more color in his pale cheeks. At first he
could not eat, but as the days went by he regained an appetite which,
to Mel's delight, manifestly grew stronger. No woman could have been
brighter and merrier. She laughed at the expression on his face when
he saw her hands red from hot dish-water, and she would not allow him
to help her. The boast she had made to him of her housekeeping
abilities had not been an idle one. She prepared the meals and kept
the cottage tidy, and went about other duties in a manner that showed
she was thoroughly conversant with them.

The way in which she had absolutely put aside the past, her witty
sallies and her innocent humor, her habit of singing while at work,
the depth of her earnest conversation; in all, the sweet wholesome
strength and beauty of her nature had a remarkable effect on Lane. He
began to live again. It was simply impossible to be morbid in her
presence. While he was with her he escaped from himself.

The day came when he felt strong enough to take a walk. He labored up
the hillside toward a wood. Thereafter he went every day and walked
farther every time.

With his returning strength there crept into his mind the dawning of a
hope that he might get well. At first he denied it, denied even the
conviction that he wished to live. But not long. The hope grew, and
soon he found himself deliberately trying to build up his health.
Every day he put a greater test upon himself, and as summer drew on he
felt his strength gradually increasing. Against Doctor Bronson's
advice, he got an axe and set to work on the wood pile, very
cautiously at first.

Every day he wielded the axe until from sheer exhaustion he could not
lift it. Then he would sit on a log and pant and scorn his weakness.
What a poor man it was who could not chop wood for ten minutes wi