the past from the dim shades of memory.

It was a bitter task, and the hot tears flashed beneath her lashes as
she remembered that Sheila Kelly had told her that Love, her husband,
was wounded and dying.

The next morning she said wistfully to the kind woman:

"I am beginning to remember things now. Do you know a place called
Ellsworth?"

"I've heerd tell of it; it's quite seven miles from here."

"Seven miles! Then how on earth did I ever get to this place?" wondered
Dainty, but she only said, reticently:

"A lady named Chase is there, and I am her daughter. I was very ill, and
I can not remember how I came to be out in the woods; but I would like
for you to send word to my mother."

"I will see about it," replied Mrs. Peters; and after consulting her
family, she reported that all were too busy to go to Ellsworth now, but
they intended to break up camp the first of October, to return to their
winter home at the station, and if she could be patient till then, she
should have a bed in the wagon, and they could easily leave her at
Ellsworth on their way past.

With this she was forced to be content, having no claim on her simple
entertainers, save that of humanity; but the week, after all, slipped
away quite fast in the delicious languor of returning health; and one
day the Peters family loaded up three long wagons with their household
goods, and set forth for home, having made Dainty and the mother quite
comfortable on a mattress for the long journey over the worst stretch of
rocky mountain road known in that section of a very rough country.

It seemed like some beautiful dream at last, when, after kindly
farewells from her homely benefactors, she stood at the gates of
Ellsworth in the chilly sunset of a windy October day, walking slowly
and weakly along the graveled paths, past fading summer flowers and
flaunting autumn blooms, on her way to the great house, her heart
leaping with joy at the thought of her mother's kiss of welcome, and
sinking with pain in the fear that she should find her darling dead and
buried, according to Sheila's story.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MORE BITTER THAN DEATH.

"No--there's nothing left us now
But to mourn the past;
Vain was every ardent vow--
Never yet did Heaven allow
Love so warm, so wild to last.
Not even hope could now deceive me,
Life itself looks dark and cold;
Oh, thou never more canst give me
One dear smile like thos