their new life in the bungalow which, under Jude Lauzoon's
contractorship, had been made ready.

During his first short stay in St. Ange young Drew had regained not only
his lost strength, but he had gained an insight into the needs of the
men and women of the small place. He had always intended doing something
for the village and its inhabitants after his return to town for they
had appealed strongly to his emotional and sympathetic nature. But what
St. Ange had vouchsafed in the way of restored health, she had
begrudgingly bestowed. To have and to hold what she had given, the
recipient must, in return, vow allegiance to her, and, forsaking all
others, cling to her pines and silent places. He must forswear old
habits and environment--he must give up all else and fling himself upon
her mercy.

It had been hard. Back there in the town, where the pulse of things beat
high, he had fought the knowledge inch by inch.

"Would a year be enough?" It would be useless. "If winters were spent
there--several winters?" The big specialist shook his head.

High, dry mountains, somewhere, were the only hope. St. Ange was
comparatively near, she had given a hint as to what she could do--better
trust her.

One after another the outposts of lingering hope were taken by the grim,
white Spectre. He must abdicate, and accept what terms the enemy
offered.

Wan, and defeated, but still with the high courage that was his only
possession, Drew tried to get the new outlook.

If there were to be--life, then there must be work, God's work; he was
no coward, he would do his part.

Mingled with the many, dear, familiar things of the life that no longer
was to be his, was a slim, pretty, little girl whom he had enshrined in
his college days, and before whom he had laid his heart's sacredest
offerings since. She, and his splendid courage would make even St. Ange
a Paradise.

Raising his eyes to her face, as she sat beside his bed the day the
specialist had given his final command, Drew whispered his hope to her.

The soft, saintly eyes fell before the trusting, pitiful ones.

"Dear," he said, a new doubt faced him--one he had never believed
possible; "they say I will be well--quite well, there if I stay. And
you and I--" but that drooping face drove him back among the shadows.

"We--must--think of others." It was the voice of a self-sacrificing
saint, but the heart-touch was lacking, and Drew received his sentence
then and there.

For