from
the weight of her unrest, which was returning with added force.

She obeyed, however, with that quivering smile still upon her lips.
Almost staggering under the load, she turned and entered the chamber
that had once been Gaston's. It was a woman's room now in every sense.
Gone were the rough furniture, the pipes and books. In their places were
the white bed, the low rocker, the many trifles that go to meet the
endless whims of a woman's fancy and taste. It was an odd room for the
shack of a backwoodsman. It had taken Joyce long to settle into it
comfortably. Her brief apprenticeship in the home that Gaston had helped
Jude make for her was the only preparation she had had for ease among
these refinements.

Once within the shelter now, Joyce almost flung the boxes from her. It
was dark and cold in the room, and the stillness soothed her. She
groped her way to the window and looked out at the little mound near the
pines, where all that was really her own--her very own--lay. It had
always been a comfort to have the little body so near her place of
safety. She had ceased to grieve when once the baby was brought away
from the ruin of the former home; but to-night the small oval, under its
crust of glittering snow, made her shudder. It was her own--but oh! it
was cold and dead like all the rest of her hope and joy. She knew it
now. Not even Gaston's coming had cleared the doubt.

She had believed herself so good and happy--and here it was made plain,
horribly plain. Everything was wrong. It had always been wrong.

But she dared not shrink into her pain. She must obey, and play her
part. Awkwardly she lighted her lamp; tremblingly she untied the
boxes--they bore the same mystic signs and the oft-repeated words, "New
York." It did not matter. New York or the New Jerusalem, one was as
unreal as the other to the backwoods girl.

Oh, but here was surprise indeed!

Joyce had not, as yet, sunk so far in doubt and apprehension, but that
the contents of the boxes moved her to interest and delight.

A gown of golden silk, clinging and long. The daintiest of gloves,
silken hose, and satin slippers. Filmy skirts, and bewildering ruffles
of cobwebby lace. What wild imagination ever conceived of such
witcheries; and what power could command their materialization in the
North Woods?

Joyce sank beside the boxes, gasping with delight. Then suddenly, as the
shock of pleasurable surprise passed, the mockery of the gift struck
her