like a malignant weight. The
mysterious and eerie sorrow of the northern night went home to him as
never before.

He knew all too well the outcome of this day's work. There would be a
few little moments of gratitude from Virginia; perhaps in the joy of the
reunion she would even forget to give him this. He would try to smile
at her, to wish her happiness; he would fight to make his voice sound
like his own. She would take Harold to her heart the same as ever. He
had not the least hope of any other consummation. Now that Harold was
shaved and clean he was a handsome youth, and all the full sweep of her
old love would go to him in an instant. In fact, her love had already
gone to him--across thousands of miles of weary wasteland--and
through that love she had come clear up to these terrible wilds to find
him.

His speech, his bearing seemed already changed. He was remembering that
he was a gentleman, one of Virginia's own kind. He already looked the
part. Perhaps he was already on the way toward true regeneration.
It was better that he should be, for Virginia's happiness. Her
happiness--this had been the motive and the theme of Bill's work clear
through: it was his one consolation now. In a few days the snow crust
would be firm enough to trust, and hand in hand they would go down toward
Bradleyburg. He would see the joy in their faces, the old luster of
which he himself had dreamed in Virginia's eyes. But it would not flow
out to him. The holy miracle would not raise him from the dead. He
would serve her to the last, and when at length they saw the roofs and
tottering chimneys of Bradleyburg she would go out of his work and out
of his life, never to return. In their native city Harold Lounsbury
would take his old place. He's have his uncle's fortune to aid him in
is struggle for success. The test of existence was not so hard down
there; he might be wholly able to hold Virginia's respect and love, and
make her happy. Such was Bill's last prayer.

They were nearing the cabin now. They saw the candlelight, like a pale
ghost, in the window. Virginia was still up, reading, perhaps, before
the fire. She didn't guess what happiness Bill was bringing her across
the snow.

Bill could fancy her, bright eyes intent, face a little thoughtful,
perhaps, but tender as the eyes of angels. He could see her hair
burnished in the candlelight, the soft, gracious beauty of her face.
Her lips, too,--he couldn't for