nothing but the logs tossing round it."

"We used to sit there--he and I--by the big cedar tree. Everything was
so cool and sweet. There was only the sound of the force-pump and the
swallowing of the Eddy. They say that a woman was drowned there, and
that you can see her face in the water, if you happen there at sunrise,
weeping and smiling also: a picture in the water.... Do you think it
true, father?"

"Life is so strange, and who knows what is not life, my child?"

"When baby was dying I held it over the water beneath that window, where
the sunshine falls in the evening; and it looked down once before its
spirit passed like a breath over my face. Maybe, its look will stay, for
him to see when he comes. It was just below where you stand.... Father,
can you see its face?" "No, Judith; nothing but the water and the
sunshine."

"Dear, carry me to the window."

When this was done she suddenly leaned forward with shining eyes and
anxious fingers. "My baby! My baby!" she said.

She looked up the river, but her eyes were fading, she could not see
far. "It is all a grey light," she said, "I cannot see well." Yet she
smiled. "Lay me down again, father," she whispered.

After a little she sank into a slumber. All at once she started up. "The
river, the beautiful river!" she cried out gently. Then, at the last,
"Oh, my dear, my dear!"

And so she came out of the valley into the high hills. Later he was left
alone with his dead. The young doctor and others had come and gone. He
would watch till morning. He sat long beside her, numb to the world. At
last he started, for he heard a low clear call behind the House. He
went out quickly to the little platform, and saw through the dusk a man
drawing himself up. It was Brydon. He caught the old man's shoulders
convulsively. "How is she?" he asked. "Come in, my son," was the low
reply. The old man saw a grief greater than his own. He led the husband
to the room where the wife lay beautiful and still. "She is better, as
you see," he said bravely.

The hours went, and the two sat near the body, one on either side. They
knew not what was going on in the world.

As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor sat silent in that cottage
on the hillside. They were roused at last. There came up to Pierre's
keen ears the sound of the river.

"Let us go out," he said; "the river is flooding. You can hear the
logs."

They came out and watched. The river went swishing, swilling past, a