night before, and that neither could ever forget till the heart
should cease to beat.

All this might be told, had one the art. But no art or skill of man
could tell how, as they talked, there flew from eye to eye, hers
brown and his blue-grey, those swift, fluttering signals of the
heart; how he watched to see on her cheek the red flush glow and
pale again, not sure whether it was from the fire upon the cave
floor or from the fire that burns eternal in the heart of man and
maid; how, as he talked and sang, she feared and loved to see the
bold leap of passion in his eyes; and how she speedily learned what
words or looks of hers could call up that flash; how, as she slept,
he piled high the fire, not that she might be warm, but that the
light might fall upon her face and he might drink and drink till
his heart could hold no more, of her sweet loveliness; how, when
first waking, her eyes fell on him moving softly about the cave,
and then closed again till she could dream again her dream and
drink in slow sips its rapture; how he feared to meet her waking
glance, lest it should rebuke his madness of the night; how, as
her eyes noted the haggard look of sleepless watching and of pain,
her heart flowed over as with a mother's pity for her child, and
how she longed to comfort him but dared not; how he thought of the
coming days and feared to think of them, because in them she would
have no place or part; how she looked into the future and wondered
what like would be a life in this new and wonderful land--all this,
no matter what his skill or art, no man could tell.

It was still morning when Jack French and Brown rode up the Night
Hawk ravine, driving two saddled ponies before them. Their common
anxiety had furnished the occasion for the healing of the breach
that for a year and more had held these friends apart.

With voluble enthusiasm Mr. Penny welcomed them, plunging into a
graphic account of their struggle with the storm till happily they
came upon the dogs, who led them to Kalman and his camp. But French,
brushing him aside, strode past to where, trembling and speechless,
Marjorie stood, and then, taking her in his arms, he whispered many
times in her ears, "Thank God, little girl, you are safe."

And Marjorie, putting her arms around Jack's neck, whispered through
radiant tears, "It was Kalman, Jack. Don't listen to yon gommeril.
It was Kalman saved us; and oh, Jack, he is just lovely!"

And Jack, patting her che