ight,
the scene was positively exhilarating; and Marion rose to her work
with hope throbbing through every vein, and courage singing along
every nerve of her body.

First she fetched wood to renew the fire, now only a heap of
smouldering embers. That done, she went to make her toilet in the
brook, with the soap and towel she had stowed in her bundle for the
shooting trip. Poor Seth! she thought, with a momentary pang; he would
not get the deer he wanted, after all. And by this thought was set in
motion a little current of regrets that filled her mind until it was
diverted by the stream. She had intended only to wash her face and
hands, now grimy after her labors at the fire. But chance led her to
a deep, still pool with a bottom of fine sand and a tiny shore of
pebbles that seemed to have been designed for bathing. Temptation
seized her, and on the very impulse, seeing that a clump of willows
screened her from the camp, she eagerly undressed, and plunged into
the water, uttering quick gasps at the cold contact, and short-clipped
shrieks of pleasure.

And so, behold a marvel! Three days ago, in the security and
familiarity of the Park, where no hardships or perils threatened, and
where she knew that Philip was safe in his cottage across the ridge,
and that her own pink bedroom awaited her at night, so deep was she in
dejection that nothing could have induced an outburst of mere physical
enjoyment such as this. But now, while Philip lay on his blankets, a
prisoner in that narrow vale, and death stood at her side uncovered
and undisguised, her spirits rose as they had never risen since her
confession, on Mount Avalanche, and if Haig had been listening he
might have heard her low laughter across the meadow.

Had she yet failed to realize her situation? Or was it that tragedy
had put on its comic mask, and laughed at death? The truth is simple.
Her faith had triumphed over what seemed to be insuperable obstacles;
and she was with Philip, for better or for worse. A miracle had been
wrought; and miracles are not meaningless, or idle, or without
purpose. It was a feeling perhaps unknown to man, who is merely a
reasoning creature, much given to material consideration of natural
causes and effects, and so compelled by his limitations to grope in
outer darkness. And it was not so much a feeling as an instinct, and
not so much an instinct as a law, of which she was the involuntary
instrument. Her purpose was so strong within he