ys been yours."

He laid one of his hands on either of her cheeks so that her face was
framed for him to read. It was flushed; the deep eyes were beautiful.

"You--all these empty years! _You_, Bella." It was as though he saw her
now for the first time. The revelation dazzled him. "I've gone thirsty,
with wine at my elbow, until it's too late." He shook his shoulders.
"Come with me, then, if you must."

She stepped into the boat and sat in the stern, her hands folded in her
lap, her eyes in their great and sudden beauty still fixed on his face.
The wind blew her hair wildly in a long, streaming veil across her
forehead, down her cheek, out over her shoulder. She was beautiful with
the joy that was hers at last.

Hugh stepped in and stood to push the boat out from the shore. His
eyes never left hers. It was a deep, long look of which her soul drank,
quenching its thirst. Very slowly the boat moved; then it turned. A hand
seemed to grip it's prow. There was a mighty, confused roaring in their
ears; the bank seemed to be snatched back from them. The sunlight, shone
into Hugh's face. Suddenly he caught at his oar.

"The river is not so high," he shouted; "the flood's going down." He
looked away from her and back. "We have--just a chance. We'll leave it
to the river. It may be the end of you and me--or, Bella, it may be the
beginning."

He steadied the boat with all his skill. It was drawn with frightful
swiftness down the swollen stream.

* * * * *

Before noon Sylvie and Pete moved slowly across the open space and went
back along their forest trail. They walked like lovers, and Sylvie's
arm helped to support him. Just before he stepped in among the trees he
turned for a long, desolate, backward look.

Now the hoop of green, once white as paper under the noon sun, and the
level, circular rim of the forest are empty and silent except for the
rattling of the river and the moving of the pines against the fixed,
grave stars. The human tragedy--or was it comedy?--has burnt itself out
like the embers of a camp-fire that will never again be kindled in that
lonely spot.

THE END

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Snow-Blind, by Katharine Newlin Burt

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