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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
Glancing at Howard, he saw an impatient frown darken his handsome
features.

"Edith is so indifferent to her health. I don't see what we can do," remarked
Howard coldly.

"Yes, I understand," Cadman replied evenly.

Then he turned to Edith again, and she read in his eyes the same wonderful
expression that had thrilled her before. Never did he drop his gaze, and he
looked untold sympathy.

"I understand. I have known just how this would be. You must go away, but
you shall not be lonesome, I have your two best friends going with you."

"I don't understand," said Edith, with a show of interest.

"Of course not," he said, smiling. "Betty Emmit arrived in New York
yesterday and telephoned me. I called upon her, and found her,—not sick,
but tired out. I think she needs a change. I then called on the Mission
President—by the way, a fine man,—and proposed that Betty accompany
you to the mountains for a week or two—mutual benefit affair! Then I've
spoken to Alma, and she is going too. How about that?"

Edith's eyes brightened with pleasure and gratitude.

"It seems too good to be true," she said happily. You are so thoughtful,
George.

"You see, we professional men know the needs of our patients beforehand,"
George replied, smiling gravely, "You will go?"

"O, yes,—with Alma and Betty, and I'll try very hard to become well again
quickly."

George arose hastily. It was hard enough for him to conceal his feeling
ordinarily, but he could hardly stand the present situation.
"I am rushed today, so I cannot linger," he said. "There is nothing I can do
for Mrs. Hester at present," he added turning to Howard. "Mrs. Lambert
will call today, and make all arrangements. The sooner she goes, the better."

"Thank you, Cadman, thank you!" he exclaimed. My mind is quite

relieved."

"Of a burden you never carried!" thought Walter.

To Edith he smiled reassuringly.

"We'll get you so strong, you'll never think of loneliness," he said with great
gentleness.

When he was gone, Howard turned to Edith, all smiles.

"You don't mind if I leave you for a few hours,—Mrs. Lambert will soon
come, and I have an important date."

"O, no," replied Edith, dreamily closing her eyes.

"Make any arrangements you like, and don't spare money, you know." He
leaned over and lightly kissed her forehead. Then quickly he left the room.

Edith, alone with her thoughts, began to feel a twinge of her sensitive
conscience.

"Howard is generous, and I wish I could show more appreciation. But I

couldn't care for money—if he would only stay with me, sometimes."

Then her thoughts wandered to George.

"He always knows what I need, she murmured." He always knows and
always gives."
 CHAPTER XV.
Spirit Upon Spirit.

"I'm so glad that we did not choose a health resort!" exclaimed Alma
standing up and feasting her eyes upon the rolling hills; green valleys, and
chain of lakes.

"Yes, this is far better than contemplating other sufferers. I do hope that I
will soon be well," returned Edith, who sat propped by pillows in an
invalid's chair.

"Of course you will dear. This air would refresh anyone," Alma said, taking
a deep breath with keen satisfaction. "You're not really ill now—just a poor
little wilted flower that needs refreshing."

Edith smiled sadly.

"I hope that you are right. But somehow Alma, I feel as though everything
was slipping away from me, and that my time has come to soon leave you
all."

"Edith dear, you must not talk so. Such thoughts keep you from getting
well," her friend replied, looking lovingly at her through a mist of tears.

Silently Edith gazed down the valley, and then giving a sigh as if to turn
away from her own dreaming, she turned to Alma, smiling.

"Alma, we've been here just two days, and you have not told me your great
secret. Now is the time to confide."

"That is just why I came to this place of seclusion this afternoon. I am

anxious to talk it out. I am not sure whether you will be pleased with me or
not. Promise me—you won't scold?" she asked playfully.
"Scold you?" Edith said softly. "How could I?"

"Edith, I don't know if I ever told you that Will's death left me entirely
penniless."

"Penniless, Alma? Why didn't you tell me long ago. You have not wanted
for anything, have you?" she asked anxiously.

"I have wanted for nothing, dear. I did not know, myself, what state my
money affairs were in. George said, when they found dear Will's coat, that
some valuable papers were in it which meant provision for me and Harold.
He told me to leave all money matters to him and not to worry. I was glad
to be relieved, and never found out until two weeks ago, that George has
supported us all this time.

Edith's eyes flashed appreciation.

"How noble he is!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, indeed! When I discovered the truth, I determined to take care of

Harold and myself in the future. Other women have done it, and there must
be some way. But when I was most troubled, George asked me—to marry
him!"

She paused a moment and dropped her eyes abashed,—as if the thought was
almost an accusation to herself.

It is well that she did not see Edith's quick flush, which receding, left her
paler than ever.

"I never have dreamed of marrying again. It would be impossible to ever

forget Will. I meant to be true to Will's memory and live my life for Harold.
But George's persuasion gained my consent. Do you think that it would be
wrong to marry without the proverbial love?"

"Yes," answered Edith in low, eager voice. "How could you accept such a
noble heart and give so little in return?"
"You are mistaken. George is giving me no more than what I am giving to
him. Suppose his heart is buried in a lost affection, and I am really helping
him, as he is helping me, to overcome a never forgotten agony of regret? He
possesses almost the love of a father for Harold, and pleads the opportunity
to care for him. Have I then done wrong?"

As she asked the question, she looked up at Edith, with a slight hesitancy.

Edith lay seemingly thoughtful with half-closed eyes. She was in reality
trying to compose herself before replying.

"I think, under such circumstances you are doing right, especially by
Harold," Edith at last replied, looking up, her eyes luminous with
excitement. "Such a friend will be a perfect husband, Alma!" she exclaimed
earnestly.

"Such a friend will be a perfect friend always, Edith," Alma returned firmly.
"None shall ever take my dear Will's place. Walter understands that and is
satisfied. You will think me a strange woman," she added.

"No, I think that I understand. You will always give the best that you can to
George—I am sure of that."

"Yes. His goodness and his sorrow will always make me generous with him.
He did not confide the name of his lost love, or the time of his loss, but
whether it was ten years ago or one, he certainly suffers still!"

Again Edith's struggle for self-control left her weaker than ever.

Alma suddenly noticed her pallor.

"Why, dear girl, you're faint. O, I have talked so long, and forgotten your
condition. Forgive me, dear," and hastily adjusting Edith's wrap, she began
to wheel her chair toward the small boarding house, which was hidden in
the clump of trees only a hundred feet away.

The little house held about fifty guests. It was situated on the lake front, and
for quiet and beauty of surroundings, it was hardly surpassable.
Betty and Alma were ideal companions for Edith, but both were worried at
her condition. They had been there for one week, and Edith grew weaker
and weaker.

As Alma and Edith approached the house, Betty came out to meet them.
She looked at Edith anxiously.

"Edith dear," she said gently; "won't you do me a great favor?"

"Anything I can, my Betty," replied Edith.

"Won't you let me have the elders come to administer to you?"

"O, do!" said Alma. She and Harold had been baptized, and she was now
full of faith in the Gospel.

"But my faith in the elders is not strong," she objected.

"Never mind that. Will you?"

Edith consented with a tired little smile.

So Betty sent for the elders. They came and administered to Edith. She
immediately took a turn for the better.

After their departure, a young "Mormon" doctor, who had been studying in
New York, came out to take a quiet vacation at the little boarding house. He
was immediately interested in Edith, and followed up the good work of the
elders by daily visiting with her, and talking about Gospel truths, in such a
way that greatly interested Edith.

Betty and Alma were delighted, and watched their friend's rapid restoration
to health with thankful hearts.

Alma wrote to Dr. Cadman:

"Dear George:—Edith has suddenly taken a turn for the better, since
our elders have administered to her, and there is a Dr. Holt here—a
'Mormon'—who is interesting her greatly. When with him, she seems
 to forget everything but their conversation. When he leaves her, one
would declare he had given her some magic tonic, instead of having
talked to her for an hour. We meet every day, in a little summer house
on the lake front. There Betty and I look on, enjoying it all." * * *

Edith's condition improved so rapidly, that after three weeks, the invalid's
chair was dismissed, and she walked out alone.

Betty was then called back to her mission work.

Howard's letters were full of delight at Edith's recovery, and he wrote

continually expressing his regret at his inability to visit her at Boonville.
Some important business kept him in New York, but he intended to spend a
few days with her at the end of the month. He would then expect her
entirely well, and her old lovely self.

Edith understood all his excuses. These letters were a bitter cup to her, but
she drained it and looked for sympathy and help elsewhere. Religion had
always been her greatest comfort, but Betty and Mr. Holt had been the first
ones to give her the full realization of the absolute completeness of a life
with God. Under Mr. Holt's guidance, she came to see all men as the
"Children of God," and so she determined to look for the good in all. The
pain from her husband's indifference became less. She dwelt more and more
on the good qualities of Howard's character, and prayed for patience and
love for him.

Since meeting Mr. Holt, her whole life seemed focused differently. Clear
and straight seemed the path now, which before had seemed hazy and
indefinable. It is true, his personal magnetism influenced her as strongly as
his logic, but as it was the influence of goodness, she did not try to resist.

Borne upon the wings of spiritual thought, she soon overcame her earthly
sorrows, and rested in the contemplation of the vastness of infinite, eternal
things. The heretofore fixed realities of life became capable of change and
progress, and the hitherto unreal mysterious realms of thought, assumed a
vital reality that filled her with wondering delight.

At the end of the month, she was indeed her old healthy self.
Howard appeared at the time expected. When he first met Edith, he was
struck with the change in her. Never had he seen her so lovely, and he was
puzzled at the transformation. A month in the hills could bring health to a
convalescing invalid, but there was something more—an added sweetness
and beauty which must have its origin in some cause unknown to him.
Howard thought with irritation of Edith's letters. They had been full of
friendship for a Mr. Holt—a "Mormon," too, and words had seemed
inadequate to express her opinion of him. Frankly she wrote of her daily
meetings with him and of his wonderful spiritual nature.

Howard, glad of being rid of the ugly prospect of an invalid wife on his
hands, had read all these letters with a tolerant laugh.

"Spiritual fiddlesticks!" he said to himself. "How women do get carried

away with this milk-sop sort of men!"

He had a distinct contempt for all religion, but he thought it a good fault to
encourage it in women. It kept them in line and kept them more submissive.
But "Mormonism" that was the limit of fanatacism!

But now that he saw Edith, and perceived the subtle change pervading her
whole being, a keen suspicion shot through his mind, and the thought of
meeting Mr. Holt became irritating. It was many hours before he met this
chance acquaintance of his wife, and, meanwhile, he had ample time to
mature his feelings which originated in the slighted doubt.

He and Edith were seated on the porch together, when a stout, little piece of
femininity appeared, and made it opportune for Edith to introduce her,

"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hester! Indeed, it is time you came to look
after your lovely wife! We won't say why!" she added with a knowing smile
at Edith.

Edith blushed at the insinuation, but Howard answered smilingly, "Mrs.

Hester is quite capable of looking after herself."

In spite of the smile, the lady felt the rebuke of his words, and soon left
them.
"Really, Edith, you should be more careful in a place like this. A married
woman, without her husband, cannot pick up chance acquaintances among
gentlemen. If she does, she must expect gossip to get busy," he concluded
with quick impatience.

The rebuke hurt, but Edith had determined to let no thought of herself
intrude during Howard's short stay.

"There are always those who cannot appreciate the good intentions of a man
like Mr. Holt. That lady is one of them," she said calmly.

Howard gave a low, cynical laugh, and keenly eyed his wife.

"A married lady is not supposed to appreciate any man's attention, good,
bad, or indifferent."

Edith knew it was no good to reply, so she sat in embarrassed silence. She
was glad when Alma soon joined them.

"Have just had a letter from George," said Alma joyously. "Harold longs to
see me, and George longs to see the miraculous change in his patient, so
both are coming to Boonville next week."

"That is well," remarked Howard. "He can perhaps predict when Edith can
return."

"I am ready now," she said quickly. "I am perfectly strong."

Alma turned to Howard.

"Really, Mr. Hester, Fate must have directed us here. Edith owes a great
part of her recovery to Mr. Holt. If he were not such a Godly man, I would
believe he had employed magic!"

A quick frown darkened Howard's countenance, and he puffed his cigar in

short, jerky puffs. Alma did not realize how she had heaped coals upon fire.

When Edith and Howard were again alone, Mr. Holt appeared. When Edith
introduced them, she noticed her husband was barely polite. He vouchsafed
no pleasantry whatever, which was entirely contrary to his usual, jovial way
of meeting strangers. Mr. Holt, seemingly, did not notice any coldness, and
directed his conversation with his accustomed earnestness.

"Well, Mrs. Hester, I will be leaving Boonville tomorrow," he said finally.

Howard read disappointment in his wife's face.

"O, I am sorry to hear that," replied Edith, with more fervor than Howard
thought necessary. "I—we will all miss you, more than you guess."

Mr. Holt regarded her with deep concern.

With no excuse whatever, Howard left them, and entered the sun parlor
nearby.

Edith followed her husband's retreat with a gaze full of troubled surprise.
Mr. Holt quietly took Howard's seat, and said, kindly:

"We have grown very near together in all spiritual thought, have we not?
Then, let us be frank in all truth between us. Your husband, Mrs. Hester,
does not like me. No, do not gainsay the fact. I read his thoughts in his
scrutiny of me. He misjudges the "Mormon," as most people do,—such is
the way of the world's judgments!" He handed her a book. "Read this, and
learn precious truth as I could scarcely give it."

"Thank you," she said earnestly, her embarrassment at her husband's show
of feeling making her ashamed to say many words.

Her husband approached unnoticed.

"Edith, I would like you to return Mr. Holt's present."

Edith turned to meet the first real anger in her husband's eyes.

She arose, and drawing herself to her fullest height, she faced him in sudden
indignation.
Mr. Holt arose also, and, looking from one to the other kindly, he said
calmly:

"I regret this, believe me. Had I known—"

"Edith," interrupted Howard, with a slight rise in his voice, ignoring Holt's
presence entirely, "will you please oblige me?"

Holt's steady gaze gradually drew Edith's eyes toward him. She read in their
soulful depths, only tender entreaty to obey.

With a sudden flood of outraged dignity, she turned to Howard.

"For the first time I must refuse you," she said firmly. "This book is the gift
of a noble friend. As such I shall prize it always."

She held out her hand to Mr. Holt, and he took it. Reverently bowing his
head, he said quietly, "God bless you both."

Raising it again, he looked toward Howard. His face, angry and tense, was
stubbornly averted. He looked toward Edith. She smiled at him gently.

"Goodbye, good friend," she said quietly.

"Goodbye," he said, with a world of sympathy in his voice.

Then he turned, and with slow thoughtful footsteps, walked down the path
and was lost to sight.
 CHAPTER XVI.
Away From the World, Soul meets Soul.

"I'm more than pleased with Edith's improvement," remarked George to

Alma, as they sat upon the porch awaiting Harold's return from exploring
the premises, and Edith's awakening from her daily siesta.

"But if you had seen her one week ago," returned Alma sadly, "And, since
then, seen her fail daily, you would be as discouraged as I am."

George looked at Alma steadily. "What has made this change? There must
be a cause, Alma; are you hiding anything from me?"

Alma dropped her eyes evasively. Should she tell George everything? After
all, it was Edith's affairs. It savored of unfaithfulness to her to betray her
confidence. But then Edith's health! George could do nothing for her, if he
was deceived in any way. He ought to know what a selfish, suspicious
husband she had. With the thought of Howard, Alma's face tingled. How he
left at an hour's notice, without saying goodbye to Edith! He had lingered
just long enough to see Mr. Holt go.

Suddenly Alma looked up to meet Walter's earnest gaze.

"George, let us go to some more private spot, and I will tell you what you
ought to know."

"I ought to know everything," replied George gravely, as they left the
chairs. "Otherwise I am useless professionally."

They walked down the path until they reached the same little summerhouse
where Edith had laid in her chair and listened to Alma's confidence.

Edith, from her window at the house, saw them through the trees and
watched them enter. Then they were shut out from her view by the dense
foliage.

She stifled a quick sob. Nervously she resumed her dressing. It was
George's first day in Boonville. She could not rest, but sought solitude on
that pretext. Now she must soon join them and act her part. Slowly she
dressed, delaying the ordeal as long as possible. Her toilet at last completed,
she seated herself near the open window and looked out upon the lovely
lake view.

Her thoughts today had tortured her almost beyond endurance.

"Would that I could lose myself in its depths," she said, wearily, and a great
melancholy superseded her sterner mood.

"That is a wrong thought," she said to herself; "Mr. Holt would call it the
result of the selfishness that makes for sin."

Her eyes wandered to the table near by where lay the chief cause of her
distraction—the book—the one resented gift from a friend. As yet, she had
not even unwrapped it. A peculiar feeling made her decide to leave it
untouched until her husband's anger had passed. Howard had shown no
signs of relenting. Not a word had he written since his return to New York.
Her check was sent as usual—that was all. Money! That was all he seemed
to think that she needed! She tried to regard him kindly. She tried to be
generous.

She failed. Mr. Holt had gone. His influence was withdrawn. In his place
had come George—noble George, for whom her heart beat wildly. Yes, she
acknowledged it to herself. Now that it was too late, she knew the error that
she had made. When free, she had refused his love. Now that it was a sin to
acknowledge his supremacy over her heart, she was forced to realize it most
painfully.

Mr. Holt's goodness had temporarily lifted her above her sinful longings,
even; he had brought her to a state of mind where she really desired to love
Howard in the same old easy way that she had always cared for him.
But now her good angel had left her side—just at the time that she most
needed him and his help, and the influx of passionate longing and regret for
the unconquerable past was overpowering.

How weak she was! Had she fallen from all her highest ideas of right! She
tried to pray, but her lips were as dumb as her heart.

Suddenly, she arose and straightened herself in stern resolve. Heart and
mind were aroused in a desperate determination to overcome. She left her
retirement and sought the porch, there to await the rest of the party.

Though she was not the girl of bloom that she had been on her husband's
arrival, her health was assuredly regained in spite of Alma's anxious fears.

She espied Harold first, coming toward the house with an armful of
branches.

"Just the kind that you can make dandy, white whips with," he informed
Edith as he neared the porch. Coming up the steps, he threw the whole
bunch down at her feet.

"That will be enough, I guess. Where's cousin George? He promised to

make them for me."

Edith stroked his curly head gently.

"Your cousin is taking a walk with your mother. Come sit with me awhile."

Harold eyed her with boyish frankness.

"I'd rather get cousin. You can't make those, you know. I'll find them pretty
quick, all righty!"

Just as he turned to go, Edith espied George and Alma appearing to view.

"There they are, Harold!" she said brightly.

"Bully!" exclaimed Harold, and with eyes dancing with delight, he ran
down the path to meet them.
George saw the boy coming. He held out his hand as usual, but his face
remained set and stern. Alma was flushed and excited. Neither expressions
did the child notice.

"Just going to hunt for you," he cried boyishly. "Lots of whips for you to
make, Cousin George! Whole heap!"

Alma looked toward George, anxiously.

"Cousin George doesn't feel like being bothered, dear."

"Oh, but he promised!" the boy exclaimed, with a face suddenly full of
miserable disappointment.

George forced a smile. "There, Harold, don't sulk! You know I don't like
that. I'll make you a few now—a whole lot tomorrow."

"Thanks!" he cried boisterously, throwing his cap in the air, and then
turning to run back to his precious find.

They were all soon seated in a circle, George busy whittling. Alma realized
it was the last thing he wished to do. She had witnessed a display of feeling
from him that she never guessed his calm nature capable of. "His friendship
for Edith must indeed be very strong," she thought. She was sure he was
placing his feelings under constraint at the present time. Perhaps he would
like to be alone with Edith to study her, and judge for himself just how far
her troubles were influencing her health.

"Harold," she exclaimed suddenly, "wouldn't you like Mus to show you
some lovely deer?"

"Where?" asked Harold, quickly.

"O, Mus can show you," she answered, nodding her head mysteriously.
"Cousin George can take Mrs. Hester out on the lake in the meantime. Then
when we have seen the lovely deer, we'll follow them in another boat, and
see if you can row as well as Cousin George."

"Whew!" returned Harold, with a low whistle, more expressive than words.
George looked up, gratefully to Alma.

"Would you like to go, Edith," he said quietly.

"Yes, indeed," replied Edith, with a thrill of genuine pleasure.

"Hurry, boy, away with the whips. Hide them safely, sir, until tomorrow."

Harold was only too ready to obey, and in ten minutes the little group was
divided.

Silently, Edith walked by George's side, down to the lake. George noticed
her embarrassment, and talked of the place and surroundings.

Once seated in the cushioned stern of the boat, Edith gave herself up to this
pleasure with a dreamy joy, overcoming her lonely strivings. For a few
minutes, only the light splash of the oars broke the silence.

When they had almost lost the house from view, George looked around
upon the big expanse of water.

"This is your first outing on the lake?" he asked gently.

"Yes, my first. It is delightful," she replied softly.

"Then you cannot direct me which way to row," he asked.

"That little bend," she answered, nodding her head toward an outlet a
hundred feet in advance, "leads to the next lake. There is a perfect chain of
six lakes, six miles in all, and each as beautiful as this one, so they say."

"Not dangerous in a storm?" asked George, watching carefully a few

approaching clouds.

"They say not, except in case of a wind storm. Then the lakes shut in by the
hills, get the full force of the wind. That is a rare occasion, though."

Thus ordinary conversation put them more at ease.

On they conversed, and on they rowed, passed the first three lakes,
disguising from one another the keen delight each one felt, at this drifting
alone together through the calm stillness of nature.

Several times George stopped and listened for the sound of oars which
would signify Alma's coming. But each time all was silent, and on they
spun.

Edith was surprised at her own happiness. Was it nature's whispering or

George's strong, manly presence, that made her feel so sure of herself, and
subdued her restless spirit?

Finally, the fourth lake was reached. Its shores were wild and lonely, unlike
those of the other lakes. Not a bungalow could be seen. Here and there an
opening appeared, where open camp had been kept. Otherwise it was a
perfect wilderness of pine and brush.

"Would you like to land and rest awhile?" George asked. "The clouds have
gathered slightly, but it promises no rain for several hours."

Edith gave consent and George made for one of the camp openings.

When they had alighted and fastened the boat to an old stump, of a tree
George looked about the clearing.

"I have it!" he exclaimed, and, leaving Edith, he returned in a few moments
with two logs.

"Rather rustic, isn't it?" he said. "Best we can do, however. There! Sit on
this, and rest yourself against the tree. Are you comfortable?"

"Very, thank you," she replied. "And you?"

"Shall do the same," he said, adjusting the log and leaning against the tree
opposite to hers, with a full sigh of satisfaction.

For a few moments he feasted his eyes upon her loveliness. The green forest
and open camp made an odd setting for Edith's pale beauty.
There was nothing in his glance to embarrass Edith. Far too honorable to
convey his feelings through even unspoken language, he simply gazed at
her with open, friendly scrutiny.

She smiled back at him.

"Do you pronounce me well?" she asked.

"To all appearances—yes. After two weeks, you can return to New York any
time you wish."

"After two weeks? Why not in a few days?"

"We want your good condition to be lasting. Mrs. Lambert tells me you
looked better one week ago than you do now. Did you feel better then?"

It seemed unkind for George to ask her such a question. But he was
determined to see for himself how deep a trouble was hers. His eyes
regarded her intently. He noticed the sudden droop of the eye-lids to hide
the shadow beneath them. Her lips quivered in spite of herself, and her
hands toyed nervously with the lace of her dress.

A sudden rush of pity destroyed his own self-control. Leaning toward her,
he laid one strong hand on her two small fair ones.

"Edith, look at me! Tell me—your old friend, little girl—what troubles
you?"

Compelled, she raised her eyes to his. The violet in them seemed deeper
and darker with a great overpowering sadness. It expressed such
melancholy depression, that George's whole being thrilled with the pain of
it.

"Thank you for your sympathy George. If you are my friend, you will ask
me nothing."

"You will not confide in me?" he pleaded, his whole heart's love
unconsciously vibrating in his voice.
The touch of his hand and his compassionate voice filled her with an
eagerness that frightened.

She longed to lay bare her heart,—to seek solace from this man who had
awakened the only real love her heart had known. Why couldn't she have
this consolation at least? He would never know that she loved him. She
would always be true to Howard—George would despise her if she were
not.

George's eyes were asking her to answer—asking her to confide in his great
heart. She felt their power. She drank in their intense sympathy—then
suddenly she grew deadly pale. She shrank away from him like a frightened
child.

"Edith, what have I done? Speak! Surely you cannot fear me?" he asked
gently.

Afraid of him? No! But she dared not tell him she feared her own poor,
weak self.

"Don't, George, O don't!" she said pitifully. "Ask me nothing. I am not

strong, that is all. I ought not to have come. Let us get home quickly. Alma
may become alarmed."

He drew away and contemplated her with surprise and concern.

"Poor child! Whatever troubles you, let it be your own sorrow then, dear
girl. I never wished to worry you about it, Edith."

"O, I knew you did not," she replied miserably.

She arose, and for a moment, weakly leaned against the tree.

"Let me help you," he said gently.

She allowed him to assist her into the boat.

When he had rearranged her cushions, and seen that she was comfortably
seated, he took the oars and started the boat quickly.
A feeling of intense shame kept her face averted. Neither spoke for some
time.

The setting sun was entirely hid by heavy ominous clouds. Small ones were
gathering from every direction.

"I hope we get ahead of this storm," remarked George anxiously. "These
mountain lakes are so treacherous."

Suddenly, little ripples and currents appeared upon the glassy surface of the
lake. They were about a quarter of a mile from the shore.

George stopped rowing and scanned the heavens intently.

"We must make for shelter until this is over," he said decisively. "See!
There is an apology of a log cabin over there. It will protect us from the
rain, anyway."

He quickly swung the boat about and headed for the small encampment.

A sudden squall caught the boat sideways.

Edith caught the rim of the boat to steady herself.

"Not a minute to lose," said George grimly.

Hardly had he spoken when a second squall struck the frail craft. With a
suddenness almost incredible, the boat was lifted almost entirely out of the
water and then with a heavy splash, it completely reversed.

So quickly had the wind accomplished its treachery, that Edith realized
nothing until she felt herself rising to the surface of the water, while a
strong arm grasped her own with an effort.

George kept her above water with one hand while he held on to one end of
the boat with the other. The wind was blowing strong, but no rain had as yet
fallen.

Edith felt little or no fear, and with almost a smile she asked George.
"Now what can we do?"

"You are not afraid?" he asked in doubtful surprise.

"Not with you," she answered quickly.

"Then we must swim ashore. Another squall and the boat may strike us," he
said fearfully.

"I cannot swim," she said, for the first time feeling the fear of the dark
water around them.

"No need. Hold on to my shoulder. Don't let go—not even if we go under a

wave. I will bring you up safely again. You understand?"

"Yes," she obeyed, and with a strange feeling of perfect protection, she gave
herself up to his guidance.

George struck out in a bold stroke. For a time he swam with rapid progress.
Then his stroke slackened and he made decided effort.

Edith had been watching the fast nearing shore. Now she watched his face.
It was growing white and drawn. She gave a little scream and
unconsciously tightened her hold. By a desperate effort George kept them
above water.

"Relax your hold!" he shouted, hoarsely, and she could see the words
wasted precious strength.

She tried to calm herself. Her heart beat wildly. Never once did she look
from George's deathlike face.

On he swam, straining every nerve and muscle. At times his eyes almost
closed.

Finally the shore was reached. Wading through the shallow water, he
dragged Edith quickly to the dry beach.

"Safe!" he exclaimed. Then with a low cry of pain he staggered forward.

Edith caught him by the arm. With a strength born of the hour, she
prevented him from falling to the ground. Quickly she sat beside him and
lifted his head upon her lap.

"George, you are hurt," she cried fearfully.

"Yes, please unloosen my vest. The boat struck me here," he said, touching
his chest to denote the spot.

Carefully she uncovered the wound. Blood covered shirt and vest.

"O! George! George!" she sobbed piteously.

George struggled to a sitting position.

"Edith, don't waste time with me. It is my finish. Go around to the point
where you can be seen. They will surely come for us some time. Go! It is
almost dark!"

She leaned over him, until her fair hair touched his own.

"Leave you now? Never!"

Her tone fascinated him and he looked at her with growing intensity in his
now sunken eyes. Soul met soul in that long, hungry gaze.

Behind them the storm raged through the forest. Before them the waves
beat wildly. The time and place completely separated them from the world.

Alone with death—and George.

The fearful past was entirely obliterated. The eternal future—what might it
bring? Only the fleeting now was surely hers!

She watched his face becoming gray. His eyes still shone upon her.

"George," she murmured, putting both arms around his drooping head, "we
shall die together."
His eyes closed, and she uttered a cry of misery.

"George! speak! speak! You must tell me once more you love me!"

His eyes opened upon her with a great joy.

"Edith, you—mean—that?"

"Yes! Yes!" she answered, and her gaze so intense, seemed to thrill him to
life. He struggled to his feet. She arose to support him.

With sudden new strength he held her off.

"No! No! You are his—his by right. God help me!"

Edith leaned forward eagerly.

"George, I was his in life—now death unites us both! I love you, George! I
love you!"

"God bless those dear words!" she heard him whisper.

Then with hands imploringly outstretched, he fell at her feet.

 CHAPTER XVII.
Edith's Release.

"He will live," gravely pronounced the old Boonville doctor of forty years'
good repute. "Only just in time," he added. "Fearful case of exhaustion and
loss of blood. Needs careful nursing—very careful. Who can take care of
him here?"

"O, I will take every care," exclaimed Alma, coming forward from the little
circle surrounding the doctor for information.

"Well! Well! We need have no fear then," he said kindly.

"And poor Mrs. Hester?" asked one sympathetic onlooker.

"Wonderfully controlled, considering the shock. Almost too much control! I

would be glad to see the tears come. A little hysterics now, a little spell of
woman's weakness would be a good thing for her," he said, with a broad
smile at the ladies. "Good-day, everyone, good-day," and the old man
passed on to his carriage.

Many voices gave vent to satisfaction at the good doctor's report. The rest
of the day little was talked of among the borders, but George's and Edith's
narrow escape and rescue.

When found, Edith was lying unconscious beside George, who was taken
up for dead. With the hope of saving Edith, they had sought aid in the
quickest possible manner, and immediate attention was given to both.

Alma, alternately by the side of George and Edith, scarcely knew the hours
pass, until she stood with the group to await the doctor's verdict.

For the first time she breathed freely. She turned to little Harold, who stood
near with round, wide eyes and parted lips.
"Be Mother's good boy, and take care of yourself, dear," she said gently,
"Mus has her hands full now."

"You bet!" he returned with grave emphasis—and with this assurance, Alma
sought Edith's room.

Entering, she stepped quietly to the bedside.

Edith lay motionless, her eyes wide open, staring fixedly at the ceiling. Two
hectic spots burned in her cheeks. Slowly she turned her gaze toward Alma.

Not once in these long hours, had she asked for George. The doctor advised
them to avoid any mention of his name. She was not delirious, but a little
might make her so.

Alma took Edith's hand and stroked it gently.

"You will be all right again very soon, dear."

Edith smiled sadly. "No, Alma dear, I will not be well again. I have not long
to live. Will you do something for me quickly?"

"O, Edith, don't talk that way?" exclaimed Alma, greatly distressed. "You
know I would not deceive you. The doctor says you are doing wonderfully."

"Yes, Alma, but the doctor does not know all. I'm glad to die, dear,—and
God will use me on the other side for His great work." She paused in her
weakness, and then continued, "Alma, don't lose one moment. I want Betty.
Don't get me a nurse. I want Betty. I'm going soon, and Howard—send for
him too."

"Edith dear," persisted Alma gently, "you're not going to leave us; do put
that thought from you. But I'll have Betty here before night, and Howard
too."

Edith did not reply, but closed her eyes, as if to sleep.

Alma telegraphed to Howard, who replied, that if it was not really serious,
he could not come for two days on account of important business.
Betty, however, took the next train to Boonville, and arrived there about
dark.

"Alma," she said, "I told President Gladder all about this sad affair, and he
said I could stay to help you until both were better."

"O, I'm so thankful!" exclaimed Alma, relieved. "Edith has a wrong idea
that she is going to die. You must talk it out of her directly."

Betty was pale but calm, when she approached Edith's bedside. For a
moment she silently gazed at the sweet face on the pillow. The closed
eyelids slowly opened, and Edith looked at her with a great fondness.

"So you've come, Betty dear? I knew you would."

Betty knelt down by the bed and, taking both hot hands in hers, she kissed
them again and again.

"My Edith! dearest, of course I came! Now I'll stay with you until I've
helped you get quite well. President Gladder said I could."

"He's kind, Betty, God will bless him. But, Betty, I'm not going to get well."

"Whatever has put such an idea into your head?" asked Betty smiling, and
controlling herself with effort.

"God has told me so, Betty—in a wonderful vision. No, I'm not delirious
dear—my mind is clear. I've only a little while to be with you dear. I want
you to talk to me of the gospel; all the time that is left. I know it is true, now
that it is too late to be baptized. Betty promise me, you'll be baptized for me
when I'm gone?"

This was too much for Betty. The tears came as she looked into the eyes of
this dying friend, who had done so much for her.

"O, dearest, I would promise to do anything, but you must try to get well.
We need you—you must try!"
"I wouldn't be much use here," returned Edith, "but"—then her eyes shone
with a sudden happy light—"I'm going to do a great work when I pass over.
Listen—my vision was so plain. I was in a strange country—I saw hundreds
of stricken people pass me by; they were captives in chains, and they were
dragging along, with faces, Betty, those sad faces! They looked at me
beseechingly, with sunken eyes that held such a haunted hopeless
expression. I tried to speak to them, but could not. On, on they passed.
Their number seemed endless. I felt stifled by their misery, and uttered a
low cry. Then I looked up to see an angel standing by me. He pointed to the
passing crowds. "You who have loved the destitute," he said, "do not be
afraid to die. God has ordained you to preach the Gospel to these waiting
spirits—now hungry for the truth.' That was all. The vision vanished, but it
was enough. It wasn't a dream. It was a message from God, Betty. Tell Alma
it was a real vision."

Betty felt that Edith spoke the truth. A sad certainty threatened to overcome
her. Silently she prayed for strength.

Edith's effort had exhausted her. Gently Betty stroked her head as she fell
asleep.

Then she sought Alma and told her all.

"Alma, it is best to face the worst. Let us be brave. Perhaps it was a dream,
but Edith is so sure. Let us pray for strength to accept whatever comes."

Toward morning Edith grew weaker. The doctor came.

"Is she in danger?" asked Alma anxiously.

"A big change for the worse," replied the doctor gravely. "Keep her very
quiet. I'll come again about noon."

Betty sent for the elders to come as soon as possible. But soon Edith feebly
called Betty and Alma to her side.

"Betty, hold me up in your arms. Alma, come close. I can't see very well."
Betty held her gently, Edith's fair head resting on her shoulder.

"Now, kiss me, Betty—and Alma," said Edith with a happy smile.

As they kissed her, she murmured, "Goodbye, dear friends, goodbye."

Then her lovely eyes lit up with an unearthly rapture. Her spirit was freeing
itself of mortal frailty.

"Look! Mother! Father! Yes, I'm coming—coming—" and with a last faint
gasp, she passed away, leaving Betty holding her lifeless body, in agony of
grief, and Alma kneeling sobbing by their side.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
The Dream of the Past.

Time heals all wounds. It did so with Betty. Her great faith reconciled her to
Edith's death, though the loss of her friendship was a keen sorrow for a long
time.

George's marriage to Alma—this was a trial to Betty that threatened to

culminate her mission. President Gladder was worried about her health.

"You seem very unwell, Betty," he said kindly. "Would you like to go
home?"

But Betty pleaded not to be released. "I'll be better soon," she said, bravely.
"I do love my mission, so it will help me."

So Betty stayed, and gave her whole heart to her mission work. It was not
long before she was her old bright, sunny self.

Fortunately George and Alma went on a prolonged trip to Europe. Betty's

love for George was unchanged, but she, finally, found an unselfish joy in
thinking of his happiness with Alma and Harold.

With this overcoming of self, Betty became a woman, and an added

sweetness was hers. Everywhere her mission work was a great success.
When her release came, which was just before George and Alma returned
from Europe, President Gladder parted with her with deep regret.

"Betty, when you are gone, I shall miss a great power in the mission."

Betty flushed with pleasure.

"Whatever has been done, has been done through me, and not by me," she
replied humbly.
 *****

It was a beautiful, clear day, when Alma, now Alma Cadman, entered her
old home with George and Harold. The boy was in excellent spirits after
seeing the wonderful world, and his constant, eager questions about what he
had seen and heard, made the homecoming void of serious thought.

It was Alma's wish to keep the home untouched by any changes. George,
quick to read her thoughts, knew that she lived much with Will's memory,
and longed to keep the old surroundings.

George respected her devotion. It did not make her morbid, for Harold was
her living joy, and in him she found her new thoughts and activities. Her
fondness for George was as it always had been, and his companionship
destroyed her loneliness, and she was able to smile and be happy once
more.

Alma went eagerly from room to room, George and Harold following.

"Let the library be last," said George smiling.

"Why?" asked Alma surprised.

"My wedding present was to greet you on my return, was it not?"

"Just what I'm looking for," she replied laughing, though in reality not
having thought of it until this moment.

"It is in the library," answered George quietly. "We will inspect all the house
first."

"How clean it all looks! Who did you trust to keep it like this? I expected to
find it all cob webs?"

"Betty begged me to leave the keys with her, so that she could see to it
herself. It was her secret, you know."

"Dear Betty! Always doing something kind! I must see her tomorrow,
surely."
At last they reached the library.

"May I?" she asked, with her hand upon the door knob.

"Yes or no, would be the same to an inquisitive little woman," he answered,

laughing down at her.

She opened the door and they entered. The light was just strong enough to
show the room, cosy and inviting as they had left it.

Alma looked around wonderingly.

"I don't see it, she said, turning to George.

"O! Mus! Look! Look!", cried Harold, who had ran across the room, and
stood staring up at the wall in open-mouthed wonder.

Alma turned. With a cry of painful joy, she stood transfixed.

Over the mantle of the fireplace, hung a life-size painting of Will Lambert.
The massive gold frame was a brilliant setting for a perfect likeness, which
looked down upon them with the direct glance which gives a picture the
semblance of life.

For a few moments she gazed into Will's fine dark eyes.

Harold, not removing his eyes from their new discovery, gradually edged up
to his mother, and slipped his hand into hers.

"Mus, it's Daddy!" he said in an awed whisper. "Will he come back to us?"

Alma's arms encircled the boy and she pressed his curly head close to her
without answering.

George came forward, and touched the boy's arm.

"Come, Harold. You know you promised to show Cousin George all your
wonderful toys. I'm going to live here now."
"Always?" asked Harold eagerly, leaving his mother's arms.

"Always, if you are very good to me, sir!"

George took Harold's hand, and led him from the room. Gently closing the
door, he left Alma alone with his gift to her.

Long she looked at her Will. Memories, tender, and suffused with a
passionate regret, swept over her being.

"O Will! Will! Do you forgive me? But for my selfish, shallow life, you
would be here now!"

His eyes seemed to smile soothingly, and she could not seem to take her
gaze from him.

Then suddenly Alma thought of the giver of this gift.

How good and noble George was! She had not even thought to thank him.

She was just about to leave the room, when a letter on the table attracted her
attention.

"Betty's hand-writing!" she exclaimed in delight.

Opening it she read,

"Dear friends:—Welcome home again! May every happiness be yours!

"I'm so sorry I could not see you before going West. I have just been
released from my mission. However, I am soon coming back to New York
to study dramatic art, and hope then to see you.

"With love to you all, as ever,

"Betty."

***********
 CHAPTER XIX.
Betty Finds Her Opposite.

Betty stayed in Ephraim only three weeks, and then returned to New York,
to study. She determined to give all her spare time to the missionaries, and
she was welcomed back joyously.

She made her home in a quiet little boarding-house, not far from the
Mission Home. There were only a few boarders. Miss Allen and Miss May
were two kindly women, unmarried and middle-aged. A Mr. Mellor was as
mild as his name, and though a devout Catholic, he overlooked Betty's faith,
and was her enthusiastic admirer.

Then there was a Mr. Edgeway, a young man with a blond attractiveness.
Sometimes Betty was inclined to laugh at his mischievous moods, and at
other times she would pity his shallow conceptions of life, and manner of
living it.

This morning he had joined her before she had gone to school.

"And won't you even take in the Henrick Hudson Celebration?" asked his
persuasive voice, while the eyes of the speaker looked at Betty with a laugh
that defied too serious an answer.

Betty returned his glance with a smile.

"Mr. Edgeway, you seem determined to make me spend my time

frivolously. Well, this once I shall surprise you. I shall be delighted to
accept your invitation, for this should be an event of interest to every
American."

"Spoken like an oracle!" exclaimed Edgeway with a careless laugh. "But,

really, I am glad you will let me take you out, just once."
Betty regarded him with a queer little smile. She rather liked this man with
his completely boyish manners. There was an undercurrent of serious
thought in him, which she could not always follow, but she felt sure that
most of his flippancy was assumed, to hide sterner feelings.

"You know I would love to go out with you many times, but I haven't the
time," she said to him, kindly.

"Time! You have twenty-four hours in the day—the same as anyone. You
mean you prefer to use your time differently?" he asked with a semicomic
expression.

"Exactly!" she responded, laughing. "I would not be such a spendthrift with
the hours as you!"

"All a matter of opinion. Methinks you are wasting the precious days of
your youth, fussing over religion with people who can't possibly appreciate
you, while here I am, languishing for attention!"

He regarded her in mock misery, as she fastened her coat.

"If they needed my attention as little as you do, I might not give them my
time," she returned gravely. "O, I would love to see you make some use of
your life!"

"Well, I like that!" he exclaimed, and he opened the door for her to pass out.
He was in the habit of accompanying her as far as their way lay together.
"Here am I going to a hard day's work, and you talk to me about using my
life," he added ruefully.

"Yes, but you work for the sole purpose of getting money to spend in the
pursuit of pleasure."

"How horribly frank you are!" he said good-humouredly. "Well, do you

know what might make me change into the most active 'Mormon?'"

"What?" she asked him, facing him in wondering interest.

"You!" he said, with a little shake of the head. "If you would just get
interested in me, enough to go out with me now and then, to keep me from
getting 'lonesome, oh, so lonesome,' I would devote all my time to
investigating your Gospel."

Betty looked her delight. "O? I will indeed. Everything I will do to to help
you!" she returned earnestly, and they parted with bright smiles of
friendship.

"Queer girl!" he muttered to himself, grimly, as he left her. "Just thinks I am

about to be reawakened," and he gave a little laugh of amusement. "I
wonder if she will ever"—and then he drew out a cigar, and puffed
seriously while he thought.

"Just as those little rings of smoke form perfectly to ascend to the heavens,
and then vanish into nothingness, so my aspirations for your hand, fair
lady!" And he quickened his pace to suit his impatience at the flatness of
things.

That same evening, at the supper table, all seemed in excellent spirits and
talkative.

"What great weather!" exclaimed Frank Edgeway, with a deep sigh of

satisfaction, as he started to eat of the bountiful repast spread before him.

"Do say something original," said Mr. Mellor, with his quiet little laugh. "I
have remarked that fact at least ten times today."

"Worthy of repetition," returned Edgeway, brightly. "And now, good

friends, I'm going to make you all fairly jump with surprise."

"What now?" mildly interrogated Miss May, fastening her sharp little gray
eyes upon him, while the rest smiled without comment, so accustomed were
they to his jokes.

"Miss Emmit has consented to let me escort her just once to the Hudson-
Fulton Celebration. Just think of her indulging in such frivolity!"
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