. Incessantly great cakes of ice poised
on the brown-white edge above for an instant, and hurled themselves
furiously into the chasm as if bent on everlasting devastation. The
river itself was rising swiftly and from time to time the great logs
that had remained stranded in the upper reaches of the river also
plunged into the vortex, where they twisted and sank and rose,
endlessly.

There was something fascinating in this vast turmoil of mighty forces,
in this leaping forth of a great river now liberated and escaping
towards the great lakes and thence to the ocean. Hitherto Madge had
gazed upon them timidly, with sudden shivers, as if all this had
represented part of the great peril of life and actually threatened
her. But now it seemed to have become a part of the immensity of this
world, a fragment of the wondrous heritage of nations still to be
born. And just as the flood still had a long journey to travel ere it
found rest in the Atlantic's bosom, so now Madge felt that her own
course represented but the beginning of a new and greater life.

In spite of many nights spent at that bedside, she looked far better
and more robust than when she had first reached Roaring River. Courage
had returned to her and with it the will to endure, to live, to seize
upon her share of the wondrous glory of this new world that was so
fresh and beautiful. And yet her thoughts were very sober; she did not
feel that she had reached utter happiness. Her life would now be one
of usefulness, according to the doctor's promise. She felt that faces
might become cheerier at her coming and that little children--the
children of other people--would welcome her and crow out their little
joy.

Several long nights of quiet rest had built her up into a woman that
was no longer the factory drudge or the recent inmate of hospitals.
One of the Papineau children had come over to remain with Hugo, lest
he should need anything. Madge attended him during the day, concocting
things on the stove, dressing the fast closing wound and administering
the drugs left by the doctor, with the greatest punctuality, and the
man's eyes followed her every motion, generally in silence. She also
spoke little. It was as if, upon both of them, a timidity had come
that made it hard for them to exchange thoughts. The first time he had
wanted to speak of the problem of her coming she failed to encourage
him.

"I know all that happened now," she told him, "and I have long known