his ears
like a strain of melody wafted from some invisible shore, and blending
with the minor undertone he caught a note of triumph. They had come to
him like a voice from out the past, but ringing with joyful assurance
for the future; the assurance that the night, however dark, must end in
a glorious dawning, in which no haunting shadow would have an
abiding-place.

_Chapter IX_

TWO PORTRAITS

The winter proved to be mild and open, so that Darrell's weekly visits
to The Pines were made with almost unbroken regularity, and to his
surprise he discovered as the months slipped away that, instead of a
mere obligation which he felt bound to perform, they were becoming a
source of pleasure. After a week of unremitting toil and study and
contact with the rough edges of human nature, there was something
unspeakably restful in the atmosphere of that quiet home; something
soothing in the silent, steadfast affection, the depth of which he was
only beginning to fathom.

One Saturday evening in the latter part of April Darrell was, as usual,
descending the canyon road on his way to The Pines. For weeks the winter
had lingered as though loath to leave, and Darrell, absorbed in work and
study, had gone his way, hiding his loneliness and suffering so deeply
as to be ofttimes forgotten even by himself, and at all times
unsuspected by those about him. Then, in one night had come the warm
breath of the west winds, and within a few hours the earth was
transformed as though by magic, and the restless longing within his
breast awoke with tenfold intensity.

As he rode along he was astounded at the changes wrought in one week.
From the southern slopes of the mountains the snow had almost
disappeared and the sunny exposures of the ranges were fast brightening
into vivid green. The mountain streams had burst their icy fetters and,
augmented by the melting snows, were roaring tumultuously down their
channels, tumbling and plunging over rocky ledges in sheets of
shimmering silver or foaming cascades; then, their mad frolic ended,
flowing peacefully through distant valleys onward to the rivers, ever
chanting the song which would one day blend in the great ocean
harmonies.

The frail flowers, clinging to the rocks and smiling fearlessly up into
the face of the sun, the silvery sheen of the willows along the distant
water-courses, the softened outlines and pale green of budding
cottonwoods in the valleys far below, all told of the