ried in the heart of a pine wood. The wood was
threaded in all directions by miles of narrow paths which shone in the
shaded sunlight as if they were satin-floored. For nineteen years it had
been George Ware's joy to roam these paths with his cousin Annie; first,
the baby whom he drew in her wicker wagon; next, the wayward little child
who walked with stumbling steps and clung to his finger; next, the gay
school-girl who brought all her perplexities and all her joys to be
confided to him under the pines; next, the shyer and more silent maiden
who came less often, but lingered helplessly until twilight made the
fragrant aisles solemn and dim as cloisters; at last, the radiant, the
child-like woman, the promised wife!

No winter could set a barrier across these pine-wood paths. When the whole
country about lay blocked and drifted, and half buried with snow, all
these spicy foot-roads were kept clear and level, and ready for Annie's
feet. Whole days of George Ware's strength went into the work and the joy
of doing this. In open spaces where the snow had drifted deep, he wrought
it into solid walls almost as high on either hand as Annie's head. In dark
nooks, where the spreading pines and hemlocks lay low and wide, he tossed
the snow into fantastic and weird masses on the right and left, and
cleared great spaces where he knew the partridge-berry would be ready with
a tiny scarlet glow to light up the spot.

This was George Ware's wooing. It never stepped into the glare, the
contention of profaner air. It was not a seeking, a finding, a conquest;
but a slow, sure growth of possession, which had as eternal foundation and
seemed as eternally safe as the results of organic law.

George's picture hung in Annie's room, opposite the foot of her bed.
Opposite the foot of the bed in her mother's room hung a large engraving
of the Sistine Madonna. I fancied that in Annie's quieter moments her eyes
rested with a troubled look upon this picture, and one day, when she was
in a deep sleep, I exchanged the pictures. I felt as if even lifeless
canvas which had George's face painted upon it, might work her good.

At last there came a night,--they said it was the fourteenth, but the
words conveyed no meaning to me,--there came a night when Dr. Fearing, who
had been sitting by Annie's bed for two hours, watching her every breath,
sprang suddenly to his feet, and beckoned to my aunt and me to follow him
into the next room. He shut the door,