n
her name.

"Beth! Beth!" he would call in a wildness of joy, and then pass his
hand across his eyes, repeating: "--this is the man I hate more than
anyone else in the world!"

That she finally knew, that the tell-tale portion of her letter had
been found when Bostwick was searched--all this availed her nothing
now, as she pleaded with Van to understand. He fought his fights, and
ran his race, and returned to that line so many times that she feared
it would kill him in the end.

At midnight on that final day of struggling he lay quite exhausted and
weak. His mind was still adrift upon its sea of dreams, but he fought
his fights no more. The fever was still in possession, but its method
had been changed. It had pinned him down as a victim at last, for
resistance had given it strength.

At evening of the seventh day he had slept away the heat. He was
wasted, his face had grown a tawny stubble of beard, but his strength
had pulled him through.

The sunlight glory, as the great orb dipped into purple hills afar,
streamed goldenly in through the window, on Beth, alone at his side.
It blazoned her beauty, lingering in her hair, laying its roseate tint
upon the pale moss-roses of her cheeks. It richened the wondrous
luster of her eyes, and deepened their deep brown tenderness of love.
She was gold and brown and creamy white, with tremulous coral lips.
Yet on her face a greater beauty burned--the beauty of her
inner-self--the beauty of her womanhood, her nature, shining through.

This was the vision Van looked upon, when his eyes were open at last.
He opened them languidly, as one at peace and restored to control by
rest. He looked at her long, and presently a faint smile dawned in his
eyes.

She could not speak, as she knelt at his side, to see him thus return.
She could only place her hand upon her cheek and give herself up to his
gaze--give all she was, and all her love, and a yearning too vast to be
expressed.

The smile from his eyes went creeping down his face as the dawn-glow
creeps down a mountain. Perhaps in a dream he had come upon the truth,
or perhaps from the light of her soul. For he said with a faint, wan
smile upon his lips:

"I don't believe it, Beth. You meant to write 'love' in your letter."

The tears sprang out of her eyes.

"I did! I did! I did!" she sobbed in joy too great to be contained.
"I've always loved you, _always_!"

Despite his wound, his weakness--all--she thrust a