so hard she thought it would burst,
and the color deepened on her cheek. She had few tricks. Her honest
nature expressed itself simply. She was glad, and her face and posture
were the manifestations of her joy. She was one of the few persons with
whom words at times have too deep meaning to be uttered, and whose
actions are the sole exponents of their feeling.

Gill said quietly:

"Sit down, dear, and I will read you the letter."

But she could not do so without giving vent to her feelings, which she
did in the very undramatic act of poking the fire. She did it
vigorously, and the click of the metal stove doors as she closed them
was a "There now" to her mood. Then she sat down ready to listen. He
began at once.

"'My dear son, doubly precious to me because of your nearness to a
horrible death, give my love to the brave girl who saved you to me. Some
day she may know from the anguish of her own heart over a child's peril
how much I mean when I say I am grateful to her. Words cannot be
stronger than that. If she is ever a mother, she will learn that it is
the parent's love alone that endures in all its sensitiveness.

"'But I am jealous, weakly, selfishly jealous of the grand girl of whom
you write so admiringly. It seems to me I detect in your sentences the
evidence that she has dethroned me in your heart, where until now I
flatter myself I have been first.

"'You say she is beautiful, womanly; that her great physical strength
does not detract from her femininity; that she is always a modest,
gentle woman. I am glad to know it, and if you love her I cannot be so
cruel as to execute the threat I wrote so fiercely some time ago, when I
guessed you were losing your heart. I guess again, John: Lizzi is the
woman you wrote of then. But come home; come and tell me about her who
has saved your life, and against whom I have not the heart to hurl my
former threat.

YOUR FOND MOTHER.'"

Lizzi took the letter and looked at it. The beautiful, clear writing was
the same as that of the other letter, which had led to her secret
marriage. Now the obstacles to the acknowledgment of that ceremony were,
or soon would be, removed. She clasped her hands, enfolding in them the
letter, and sat still, listening to her heart beating a reveille for the
sunrise of certainty. She had been living in the night of doubt. She had
been afraid of this formidable mother, who wrote so beautifully and
coldly, but now this fear was banished, an