his guitar to life and sing very softly, or hold it
affectionately in his lap, a hand muting its strings, while he pondered
dreamily of far-off matters, of cities and men, and the folly of
expecting ever to receive treasure such as the advertisements promise.

Ewing and Virginia, after the snow packed, went forth on snowshoes far
into the white silence; over open spaces so glaring that the eyes closed
in defense; through ravines where once-noisy streams were stilled; and
under forest arches of green where the snow was darkened to hints of
blue--they agreed that Sydenham would paint it blue without
condescending to hints--and where the hush was so intense that they
instinctively lowered their voices. They passed long times without
speech, as they would have done in a church, worshiping the still beauty
about them, beauty of buttressed peak, of snow-choked canyon, of
green-roofed cathedral, of pink light at sunset on endless snow-quilted
slopes.

Mrs. Laithe, too, sought the open when the sun was high, and one day in
midwinter she walked as far as the lake in the path beaten by the stock.
It did not occur to her then that this was no feat for a dying woman nor
even on the succeeding days when this walk became her habit. It was a
change for her eyes from the cabin prospect; the sun warmed her
genially, despite the intense cold, and she liked the stillness, all the
movements of life going on in a strange, muffled silence. This helped
her to remember her own plight. Life still abounded with all its warmth
and glad clashing, but she must have only eyes for it--no heart of
desire. She had been so sure of this from the first that she gave but
heedless smiles to the others when they told her she was better. They
had always said such things.

She slept the long nights through now, seeking bed like a tired child,
and waking in strange refreshment. And milk no longer appeased her
hunger as it had wholly done when she arrived. The savor of baked meats
was now sweet to her. She was presently walking to the lake both morning
and afternoon, breathing deep of the dry air that ran fire in her veins
as she absorbed it. And the flush on her face when she returned was not
that of fever.

But more eloquent than these physical symptoms was a sullen current of
rebellion rising slowly within her, the old fighting instinct, a lust
for sheer living, a thing she had believed was long since extinct.

She did not lose her certainty of death al