ed, and all was still, silent and dark.

It might have been a moment, or it might have been ages. Suddenly this
wonderful peace was disturbed. It was as though she had just awakened
from a deep refreshing sleep in some strange, unfamiliar world. The
darkness remained, but it was the darkness of peace. The beating wind
had gone, and she only heard it sighing afar off. She was calling
again, but no longer in despair. She was calling to that some one far
above her with the certain knowledge that she would be answered. The
darkness was passing, too. Yes, and she was no longer falling, but
soaring up, up, winging her way above, without effort, without pain.

The savage waves were receding, their voices had died to a low murmur,
like the voice of a still, summer sea on a low foreshore. Now, too,
between every cry she waited for that answer which she knew must be
forthcoming. It was some man's voice she was awaiting, some man,
whose name ever eluded her searching brain. She strained to hear till
the pulses of her ear-drums throbbed, for she knew when she heard the
voice she would recognize the speaker.

Hark, there it was, far, far away. Yes, she could hear it, but how far
she must have fallen. There it was again. It was louder, and--nearer.
Again and again it came. It was quite plain. It was a voice that set
her brain and heart afire with longing. It was a voice she loved more
than all the world. Hark! What was that it said? Yes, there it was
again.

"Pore little gal, pore little Joan."

Now she knew, and a flood of thankfulness welled up in her heart. A
great love thrilled through her veins, and tears flooded her eyes,
tears of thankfulness and joy. Tears for herself, for him, for all the
world. It was Buck's voice full of pity and a tender love.

In a moment she was awake. She knew she was awake to a sort of dazed
consciousness, because instantly her brain was flooded with all the
horror of memory. Memory of the storm, the fire, of the devastation of
her home.

For long minutes she had no understanding of anything else. She was
consumed by the tortures of that memory. Yes, it was still storming,
she could hear the howling of the wind, the roar of thunder, and the
hiss and crackling of fire. Where was she? Ah, she knew. She was
outside, with the fire before and behind her. And her aunt was at her
side. She reached out a hand to reassure herself, and touched
something soft and warm. But what was that? Surely it was Bu