fine veil of the falling rain. Ah, wonderful,
perfect world it seemed to him, seen through the veil of the rain.

The fireplace in the cabin was built of rough stone, wide and high, and
there he made him a brisk fire with fat pine and brushwood. He drew in
great logs which he heaped on the broad stone hearth to dry. He piled
them on the fire until the flames leaped and roared up the chimney, so
long unused. He sat before it, delighting in it like a boy with a
bonfire, and blessed his friend for sending him there, smoking a pipe in
his honor. Among the doctor's few cooking utensils he found a stout iron
tea-kettle and sallied out again in the wet to rinse it and fill it with
fresh water from the spring. He had had only coffee since leaving
Canada; now he would have a good cup of decent tea, so he hung the
kettle on the crane and swung it over the fire.

In his search for his tea, most of his belongings were unpacked and
tossed about the room in wild disorder, and a copy of _Marius the
Epicurean_ was brought to light. His kettle boiled over into the fire,
and immediately the small articles on his pine table were shoved back in
confusion to make room for his tea things, his bottle of milk, his corn
pone, and his book.

Being by this time weary, he threw himself on his couch, and
contentment began--his hot tea within reach, his door wide open to the
sweetness of the day, his fire dancing and crackling with good cheer,
and his book in his hand. Ah! The delicious idleness and rest! No
disorders to heal--no bones to mend--no problems to solve; a little
sipping of his tea--a little reading of his book--a little luxuriating
in the warmth and the pleasant odor of pine boughs burning--a little
dreamy revery, watching through the open door the changing lights on the
hills, and listening to an occasional bird note, liquid and sweet.

The hour drew near to noon and the sky lightened and a rift of deep blue
stretched across the open space before him. Lazily he speculated as to
how he was to get his provisions brought up to him, and when and how he
might get his mail, but laughed to think how little he cared for a
hundred and one things which had filled his life and dogged his days ere
this. Had he reached Nirvana? Nay, he could still hunger and thirst.

A footstep was heard without, and a figure appeared in his doorway,
quietly standing, making no move to enter. It was Cassandra, and he was
pleased.

"My first visitor!" he excl