thout
getting out of breath! This pile of logs became to him a serious and
meaning obstacle. Every morning he went at it doggedly. His back grew
lame, his arms sore, his hands raw and blistered. But he did not give
up.

Mel seemed happy to see him so occupied, and was loath to call him
even when it was necessary. After lunch it was his habit to walk in
the woods. Unmindful of weather, every day he climbed the hill,
plunged into the woods, and tramped until late in the afternoon.
Returning, he usually slept until Mel called him to dinner. Afterward
they spent the evening in the little library. The past seemed buried.
Lane's curiosity as to family and friends had not reawakened.

Mel possessed a rich contralto voice which had been carefully
cultivated. Every evening in the twilight, with only the flickering of
the wood fire in the room, she would sit at the piano and sing. Lane
would close his eyes and let the mellow voice charm his every sense.
It called up his highest feelings; it lingered in his soul, thrilled
along his heart and played on the chords of love and hope. It
dispelled the heavy gloom that so often pressed down upon him; it
vanquished the depression that was the forerunner of his old terrible
black mood.

It came about that Lane spent most of his time outdoors, in the
fields, along the river, on the wooded hills. The morbid brooding lost
its hold on his mind, and in its place came memories, dreams,
imaginations. He walked those hills with phantoms of the past and
phantoms of his fancy.

The birds sang, the leaves fluttered, the wind rustled through the
branches. White clouds sailed across the blue sky, a crow cawed from a
hilltop, a hawk screeched from above, the roar of the river rapids
came faintly upward. And Lane saw eyes gazing dreamily downward,
thoughtful at a word, looking into life, trying to pierce the veil. It
was all so beautiful--so terrible.

The peeping of frogs roused in Lane sensations thrilling and strange.
The quick sharp notes were suggestive of cool nights, of flooded
streams and marshy places. How often Lane wandered in the dusk along
the shore to listen to this chorus!

At that hour twilight stole down; the dark hills rose to the pale blue
sky; there was a fair star and a wisp of purple cloud; and the shadowy
waters gleamed. Breaking into the trill of the frogs came the song of
a lonely whippoorwill.

Lane felt a better spirit resurging. He felt the silence, the beauty,
the