r voice to a whisper as she spoke the last words, and
her husband felt the hands on his knee tremble. He said nothing,
though his face grew dark, and his teeth shut over his lip tightly. "I
have been wondering," she went on, "what became of him, Jamie!--if he
is still alive, and--" with a break in the soft voice--"if he has
forgiven me _my_ part in his suffering. Oh, Jamie!" she broke out
passionately, throwing her arms about her husband, and raising her
lovely, tearful face to his, "Oh, Jamie! I was so young and foolish
when I promised to be his wife, and I had not even seen you then! Tell
me, Jamie, was I so very, very wicked that I loved you best? Could I
help it, Jamie?" She rose and threw herself upon his breast, sobbing
like a child. She could not, through her tears, see the working of his
face, nor the effort it caused him to speak. He tried to quiet her
with caresses and all manner of fond epithets, and at last she lay
still, with closed eyes, upon his shoulder.

A tremendous blast swept through the valley, shaking the cottage to
its foundation, and shrieking down the chimney like a cry of despair.

"Great heavens!" Dixon muttered; "what a night!" Then, rousing
himself, he added, "Come, lassie. Come rest, and promise me not to
give way to such excitement again. You are not strong, and such moods
are dangerous for you."

They rose, and stood facing each other before the dying fire.

"One thing," he said, seizing her hands, with a swift change of
manner--"one thing, Barbara. Have you ever been sorry that you came
with me--that you trusted me?"

She looked at him wonderingly, but with perfect love and trustfulness.

"Never, Jamie!" she said. "Never for one moment."

"And whatever happens," he went on, drawing her closer, "whatever
happens, you are sure you never _will_ be sorry?"

"Quite sure, Jamie!"

He kissed her again and again, until she laughed at his lover-like
vehemence.

"Any one would suppose we were about to be separated for years," she
said, playfully.

He laughed, too, but his face and voice were serious, as he said,
firmly:

"Nothing shall separate us but death, lassie!"

* * * * *

... When Dixon left his house the next morning it was still intensely
cold, but the wind had gone down, and the clumps of evergreens and
shrubbery on the lawn were motionless as if painted there.

He stood a moment on the lower step drawing on his fur mittens, and,
nodding