is hand, but here was a work more important than
any labor of farm or fireside. Steadfastly he watched and listened,
while the sun sank lower, and the woods were filled with a golden glow
like the radiance of many candles lighted in some great temple.

Sleep is a mystery, and so is our awakening from sleep. Who can tell
where the soul goes, when the body lies motionless, unseeing,
unhearing, and who can tell what calls it back from those far and
unremembered lands?

It may have been the chill of the coming night as the sun went down, or
the cry of a bird that summoned Miranda again to earth. She opened her
eyes with a long, sighing breath. How heavenly to waken out of doors and
see the blue sky and the swaying limbs of the trees instead of the
cracked ceiling of her bedroom! Then, as full consciousness came back to
her with memory of the day just passed, she saw that the sun was nearly
down. Night was at hand; the birds were seeking their nests, and she
must return to her home. With the thought of home came the thought of
duty, of the undone work she had left behind her that morning, and her
mother toiling in the gloomy kitchen. She sprang up, every sense alert,
turned her face in the direction of home, and took the nearest path
through the underbrush.

The watcher by the tree heard her flying steps and breathed a sigh of
relief. He moved cautiously around the trunk of the oak and waited till
he was sure she was out of the wood. Then he followed her trail and
caught sight of her half-way across the plowed field. He watched till
she was safe inside the pasture and then retraced his steps to the dead
tree. Had he been living in a dream? No, for here were the withered
violets lying on the ground witnessing to the reality of the last few
hours. He gathered up the poor, limp flowers, placed them carefully in
his waistcoat pocket and walked rapidly homeward.

The sun was just on the horizon line, when Miranda reached the garden
gate, and the splendor of light all around made her pause and look back
to the glowing West. Clouds were gathering for a storm; every cloud was
a mount of transfiguration, golden-hued or rose-colored, and the evening
sky was pierced by long arrows of light that grew brighter and more
far-reaching as the great central light sank lower behind the little
hills. The wind was blowing across the fields, carrying with it the
fragrance that night draws from the heart of the forest. One moment the
sad magni