the sweet sound of rain--for his was the thirsty heart. It
was surely she, and not another,--and the whole meaning of life seemed
clear to him. He knew not how or why, but he had been alone so long, and
his hungry heart had wondered, and life seemed such a wounded thing.

But now he actually saw those silken strands, gently waving from her
haste, and the parted lips that poured forth her soul's deep loyalty,
and the dear form of ardent love--a maiden's form. All these came upon
him like the dawn, and the citadel of life's frowning mystery was
stormed at last. How voluptuous, after all, in its holiest sense, is
God's purpose for the pure in heart!

She stood, her eyes now suffused with tears, but smiling still; the
panic in her father's house, the comment of cruel tongues, the fight
with death, the pestilence that walks in darkness--these were all
forgotten in the transport of her soul. She had chosen her Gethsemane
long ago, and this was its harvest time.

Angus' eyes drank deeply from the spring.

"Margaret," he said at last, "how beautiful God is!"--and Margaret
understood.

She advanced towards the bed, her hands outstretched--he sought to bid
her back.

"Margaret, you know not what you do; your life----" But it was in vain.

"My life is my love," she cried with defiant passion. "Oh, Angus, how
beautiful God is!" and, stooping down, she overpowered him, spurning
death while love should claim its own.

As she stood above him again, her lips were moist with love's anointing
and she knew that nothing could prevail against them now. Hers the
promised power that could take up serpents, and drink deadly things, and
be unharmed. Hers the commission to lay hands on the sick that they
might recover. Her sombre foes seemed many; shame clouded the name she
fain would bear, opposition frowned from the faces of those who bore
her, and now plague had joined the conspiracy--but in all these things
she was more than conqueror.

* * * * *

The winter had retreated before the conquering spring, and the
vanquished pestilence had also fled when they came forth again, these
prisoners of love. Nearly four long luscious weeks had flown, and their
souls' bridal time was past. They had baffled death together; and they
came forth, each with the great experience--each with the unstained
heart.

Angus bore a scar, only one, as the legacy of pestilence--but it could
be clearly seen, and it was on his