ions for you, maybe it will
lift the curse from your suffering shoulders. It--it is the only thing
in the world that is stronger than disaster. It is the only thing in
the world that is stronger than--death."

They were her aunt's words spoken in the vehemence of her prophetic
passion. It was the one thing, she had warned her, that could save
her.

Was this the love she had found? Was this the love to lead her to
salvation--this wonderful love of Buck's? Was this that which was to
leave life some compensations? Was this that which was stronger than
disaster--than death? Yes, yes! Her love was her life. And now without
it she must die. Yes, yes! Buck--young, glorious in his courage and
strength. He was stronger than disaster, and their love--was it not
stronger than death?

From the moment of this wonderful recollection, a gentle calm
gradually possessed her. The straining of those two long wakeful
nights, the nightmare of dread which had pursued her into the daylight
hours, left her with a sudden ease of thought she had never hoped to
find again. It all came back to her. Her aunt had told her whither she
must seek the key that would unlock the prison gates of fate, and all
inadvertently she had found it.

In Buck's love must lay her salvation. With that stronger than death
no disaster could come. He was right, and she was all wrong. He had
laughed them to scorn--she must join in his laugh.

So at last came peace. The last wakeful night before the morning of
her aunt's return terminated in a few hours of refreshing, much-needed
slumber. Hope had dawned, and the morrow must bring the morrow's
events. She would endeavor to await them with something of the
confidence which supported Buck.

* * * * *

The room was still, so still that its atmosphere might have been
likened to the night outside, which was heavy with the presage of
coming storm. There was a profound feeling of opposing forces at work,
yet the silence remained undisturbed.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and the yellow lamplight shed its soft
monotony over the little parlor, revealing the occupants of the room
in attitudes of tense concentration, even antagonism. Mercy Lascelles
swayed slowly to and fro in the new rocking-chair Joan had purchased
for her comfort. Her attenuated figure was huddled down in that
familiar attitude which the girl knew so well, but her face wore an
expression which Joan had never beheld before.