at they would
not listen to any warning from her, and so she might as well keep
silent. The dream and Klota's words might amount to nothing, yet it
was well to be ready for any emergency.

Opening a drawer in her dresser, she brought forth a revolver, and held
it thoughtfully in her hand for a few minutes. As a rule she carried
it with her on all her trips beyond the Golden Crest, and she had been
well trained in the use of the weapon since she was a mere girl. She
was a good shot, and was very proud of her accomplishment.

"A girl should always be able to take care of herself," her father had
told her over and over again.

"In a country such as this one never knows what might happen, and it is
well to be prepared."

That evening as she sat at the piano and played while Reynolds sang,
she forgot for a time her anxiety. His presence dispelled all gloomy
fears, and the sound of his voice thrilled her very being. They were
both happy, and all-sufficient to each other.

Across the hall in his own room, Jim Weston sat alone, ensconced in a
big comfortable chair. He was re-reading one of his favorite books,
"Essays of Nature and Culture." He was engrossed in the chapter, "The
Great Revelation," and as he read, the music across the way beat upon
his brain, and entered into his soul. "Every bit of life is a bit of
revelation; it brings us face to face with the great mystery and the
great secret." . . . He paused, and listened absently to the music.
"All revelation of life has the spell, therefore, of discovery." . . .
The words of the song the young people were now singing again arrested
his attention. He liked "Thora"; it was a song of the north, and Glen
had often sung it to him. "There is the thrill, the wonder, the joy of
seeing another link in the invisible chain which binds us to the past
and unites us to the future." The words of the essay startled him. He
laid aside the book, and rested his head upon his hand. "Another link
in the invisible chain which binds us to the past." He thought of her
who had made his life so pleasant. He glanced above his desk, and a
mistiness came into his eyes. Memory now was the only link which bound
him to the past, to those sweet days of long ago.

And as he sat there, the singing still continued. He only half
comprehended the meaning of the words, for he was living in another
world. But presently he started, clutched the arms of his chair, and
bent intently forwa