e first learned the verdict she was wild with delight
and could hardly wait for her "hours off" to tell Boswell all about it.

She was "capped" at last. No hard-won crown was ever appreciated more
than that white trifle which rested like a bit of snow upon the "rusty
hair" of Priscilla Glenn.

Before the little mirror in her own bedchamber, on that first victorious
day, she posed and confided to her appreciative reflection.

"So this is Priscilla Glenn of the In-Place?" she whispered. "I simply
can't believe it! No one else would believe it either; and you are not
the same. You never will be again what you once were."

The flush of excitement showed plainer now than of yore, for the clear,
dark skin had taken on the delicacy of the city's tint. The eyes were
deep and grave, for already they had witnessed the mystery of life and
death. They had smiled down at pain-racked motherhood; had held, in calm
courage, many an outgoing soul. Priscilla had a closer vision than she
once had had when she dreamed her dreams of what lay beyond the Secret
Portage and the Big Bay.

The reflection nodded acknowledgment to all that the excited brain
affirmed. Then suddenly:

"Why, Priscilla Glenn, you are crying! And for--which?"

The quaint expression brought a smile.

"You are homesick, Priscilla Glenn, homesick for what you have never had!
That's the matter with you. You want some one to go to and tell about
this, but in all the world there isn't any one who could understand. You
poor, poor dear! What would your father and mother think of you? There,
now, never mind. You are only a--blue and white nurse. Even Master
Farwell and Mr. Boswell could not understand; but a woman could. Some
woman! She would know what it means to be free at last and have
something, quite your own, with which to hew and cut your own road; yes,
your own road, right along to--to the end, just as old Pine used to cut
the new trails. It's the standing up straight at last on your own roots
like the dear little white birch in the Place Beyond the Winds. A woman
could understand, but no one else."

By some subtle power Priscilla had thought and talked her fancy far and
away from the plain room of St. Albans. Her longing, her quaint "for
which?" the memory of the Indian guide and the little white birch had
performed a miracle. Through the excitement and elation stole the
fantastic power of childhood. She was on her Road, bound for her Heart's
Desire! No doubt