ted his face to where the storm
swept above him, and for an instant he fancied that high up on the
ragged edge of the rock there might have stood Pierre, with his great,
gaping, hungry heart, filled with pain and yearning, staring off into
the face of the Almighty. And he fancied, too, that beside him there
hovered the wife and mother. And then he looked to Fort o' God. The
lights were out. Quiet, if not sleep, had fallen upon all life within.
And it seemed to Philip, as he went back again through the storm, that
in the moaning tumult of the night there was music instead of sadness.

He did not sleep until nearly morning. And when he awoke he found that
the storm had passed, and that over a world of spotless white there had
risen a brilliant sun. He looked out from his window, and saw the top
of the Sun Rock glistening in a golden fire, and where the forest trees
had twisted and moaned there were now unending canopies of snow, so
that it seemed as though the storm, in passing, had left behind only
light, and beauty, and happiness for all living things.

Trembling with the joy of this, Philip went to his door, and from the
door down the hall, and where the light of the sun blazed through a
window near to the great room where he expected to find the master of
Fort o' God, there stood Jeanne. And as she heard him coming, and
turned toward him, all the glory and beauty of the wondrous day was in
her face and hair. Like an angel she stood waiting for him, pale and
yet flushing a little, her eyes shining and yearning for him, her soul
in the tremble of the single word on her sweet lips.

"Philip--"

"Jeanne--"

No more--and yet against each other their hearts told what it was
futile for their lips to attempt. They looked out through the window.
Beyond that window, as far as the vision could reach, swept the
barrens, over which Pierre had brought the little Jeanne. Something
sobbing rose in the girl's throat. She lifted her eyes, swimming with
love and tears, to Philip, and from his breast she reached up both
hands gently to his face.

"They will bring Pierre--to-day---" she whispered.

"Yes--to-day."

"We will bury him out yonder," she said, stroking his face, and he knew
that she meant out in the barren, where the mother lay.

He bowed his face close down against hers to hide the woman's weakness
that was bringing a misty film into his eyes.

"You love me," she whispered. "You love me--love me--and you will never