wn that there was
mere incompatibility, it was the business of the superior mind to make
straight a highway for the Lord across those lives. Let every valley be
exalted, every hill be brought low.

Dr. Saunders _acquiesced_ in this verdict, and wrote a letter to his
wife. He knew she could not read it, but he knew also that she could
procure it to be read to her. He filled it with accounts of his
situation, occupation, expectation; and he sent her money. He said that,
if he could get a furlough, he might run up North for a few days, as
other men went home who could get leave of absence, to see that those
whom he had left behind him were doing well; and they would both perhaps
be able to go and see their daughter Jenny, or else they might have her
home for a holiday. He wrote a letter saying these things and others,
and any wife might have been proud to receive such from her husband, "in
the war."

And when he had sent it, he looked for no answer. This was a kind of
giving which must look for no return. And yet an answer was sent him. He
did not receive it, however, it was sent at so late a date; he was then
on his way to Dalton.

When the whistle of the miniature boat which plied the lake sent a
warning along the hillside that a passenger was on board who wished to
land, or that mail was to be sent ashore, a small boat was rowed from
the Point by a lad who was lingering about, waiting to know if any such
signal were to come, and one passenger stood at the head of the ladder,
waiting for him to come alongside. This was Dr. Saunders, who, having
been rowed ashore, walked three miles down the road, and up along the
mountain, to the Dalton neighborhood.

The first man whom he met as he walked on was the blacksmith, who had
been instrumental in getting Jenny's letter written. He was sitting in
front of his shop, alone. There was nothing about this man who was
walking into Dalton to excite a suspicion in the mind of the shrewdest
old inhabitant who should meet him that his personality was familiar to
Dalton eyes. He might safely ask what questions he would, and pursue his
way if he chose to do it. Nobody would recognize him.

The doctor lingered as he went past the shop; but the blacksmith did not
speak, and he walked on; and he passed others, his old neighbors, as he
went. This was hardly pleasant, though it might be the thing he desired.

He walked on until he came to the red farm-gate of Farmer Elkins,
Nancy's uncle