hunting-room, how could you believe so poorly of me!"

She gave a low laugh. "That's what your good angel used to plead," she
said.

"Good angel, indeed!" said I, memory of the vows to that miscreant
adventurer fading. "That good angel was a lazy baggage! She should
have compelled you to believe!"

"Oh--she did," says Hortense quickly. "The poor thing kept telling me
and telling me to trust you till I--"

"Till you what, Hortense?"

She did not answer at once.

"Monsieur and the blackamoor and I had gone to the upper river watching
for the expected boats----"

"Hortense, were you the white figure behind the bush that night we were
spying on the Prince Rupert!"

"Yes," she said, "and you pointed your gun at me!"

I was too dumfounded for words. Then a suspicion flashed to my mind.
"Who sent Le Borgne for us in the storm, Hortense?"

"Oh," says Hortense, "that was nothing! Monsieur pretended that he
thought you were caribou. He wanted to shoot. Oh," she said, "oh, how
I have hated him! To think--to think that he would shoot when you
helped us in Boston!"

"Hortense, who sent Le Borgne and M. Picot to save me from the wolves?"

"Oh," says Hortense bravely, with a shudder between the words, "that
was--that was nothing--I mean--one would do as much for
anybody--for--for--for a poor little stoat, or--or--a caribou if the
wolves were after it!"

And we laughed with the tears in our eyes. And all the while that vow
to the dying adventurer was ringing like a faint death toll to hope. I
remember trying to speak a gratitude too deep for words.

"Can--I ever--ever repay you--Hortense?" I was asking.

"Repay!" she said with a little bitter laugh. "Oh! I hate that word
repay! I hate all give-and-take and so-much-given-for-so-much-got!"
Then turning to me with her face aflame: "I am--I am--oh--why can't you
understand?" she asked.

And then--and then--there was a wordless cry--her arms reached out in
mute appeal--there was no need of speech.

The forest shone green and gold in the sunlight. The wind rustled past
like a springtime presence, a presence that set all the pines swaying
and the aspens aquiver with music of flower legend and new birth and
the joy of life. There was a long silence; and in that silence the
pulsing of the mighty forces that lift mortals to immortality.

Then a voice which only speaks when love speaks through the voice was
saying, "Do you remember your dreams?"

"What?" s