re glad
that she had been born. All the clouds that had hung about her since
that evening in the woods had been miraculously rolled away and she knew
again as she had known before that Peter Nichols was the one man in all
the world for her.

Their evening together was a wonderful thing to contemplate, and she lay
in bed, her eyes wide open, staring toward the window, beyond which in a
dark mass against the starlit sky she could see the familiar pines,
through which was the path to Peter's cabin. The stars twinkled jovially
with assurance that the night could not be long and that beyond the
night were to-morrows still more wonderful than to-day. And praying
gently that all might be well with them both, she fell asleep, not even
to dream.

Early morning found her brisk at her work around the house, cleansing
and polishing, finishing to her satisfaction the tasks which Peter's
impatience had forbidden the night before. All of Aunt Tillie's blue
china set was carefully restored to its shelves, the napery folded away,
the shiny pots hung upon their hooks and the kitchen carefully mopped.
Then, with a towel wrapped about her head (for such was the custom of
the country), she attacked the dining-room and parlor with broom and
dust-cloth, singing _arpeggios_ to remind herself that everything was
right with the world.

It was upon the plush-covered sofa where she and Peter had sat the night
before that Beth's orderly eye espied a square of paper just upon the
point of disappearing in the crease between the seat and back of Aunt
Tillie's most cherished article of furniture and of course she pounced
upon it with the intention of destroying it at the cookstove. But when
she drew it forth, she found that it was an envelope, heliotrope in
color, that it bore Peter's name in a feminine handwriting, and that it
had a strange delicate odor with which Beth was unfamiliar. She held it
in her hand and looked at the writing, then turned it over and over, now
holding it more gingerly by the tip ends of her fingers. Then she
sniffed at it again. It was a queer perfume--strange--like violet mixed
with some kind of spice.

She put her broom aside and walked to the window, her brow puckered, and
scrutinized the postmark. "London!" Of course--London was in England
where Peter had once lived. And Peter had drawn the letter from his
pocket last night with some other papers when he had shown her the
communication from "Hawk" Kennedy. It was luc