ing waves, and the convalescents rested on the shingles beside
them, taking life with every breath, and enjoying that perfect rest
that shingle knows how to give, because it takes the shape of the
sleeper, whether he be young or old, or short or long.

The days were of soft, delicate radiance, the nights full of stars.
The moon in all her stages was clear as silver, the dawns came
streaming up from the throbbing breast of the ocean. The springtime
songs were bubbling in the birds' throats, they sang as if they never
would grow old, and the honey bees were busy among the cherry blooms,
delirious with delight.

Who speaks of sadness in such days?

Certainly Christine did not. All the troubles of the hard winter were
past, and her heart was running over with a new joy. Cluny was coming
home. Very soon, the long waiting would be over. This thought made her
restlessly busy. Her home had to be renovated thoroughly. Altogether
twenty-eight children had been sheltered for short or longer periods
there, and they had all left their mark on its usually spotless walls
and floors. Well, then, they must be cleaned--and men quickly appeared
with lime and white paint, and women with soap and scrubbing brushes.
And Christine went through the rooms, and through the rooms, with
them, directing and helping forward the beautifying work.

She had also to think of her wedding-dress, and her wedding-breakfast,
but these cheerful, lengthening days gave her time for everything.
When the house pleased even her particular idea of what it ought to
be, she turned to the garden. The seeds of the annuals were sown, and
the roses trimmed, and not a weed left in the sacred little spot.

Then day after day added to all this beauty and purity, and one
happy morning Jamie brought the letter. Cluny was in Glasgow, and his
letter was like the shout of a victor. He would be in Culraine on
Thursday--first train he could make--they would be married Saturday
morning. Christine could not put him off any longer. He had been
waiting twenty-one years--for he had loved her when he was only nine
years old--and he had fulfilled every obligation laid on him. And
now! Now! Now! She was his wife, his very own! there was no one,
and no circumstance, to dispute his claim! and so on, in sentences
which stumbled over each other, because it was impossible for
humanity to invent words for feelings transcending its comprehension.

Christine laughed softly and sweetly, kiss