replenishing its strength from the gorgeous falling leaves, had soothed
him. Thoughts of Rosalie took a new form. Her image possessed him,
excluding the future, the perils that surrounded them. He had gone
through so much within the past twenty-four hours that the capacity for
suffering had almost exhausted itself, and in the reaction endearing
thoughts of Rosalie had dominion over him. It was the reassertion of
primitive man, the demands of the first element. The great problem was
still in the background. The picture of Kathleen and the other man was
pushed into the distance; thoughts of Billy and his infamy were thrust
under foot--how futile to think of them! There was Rosalie to be thought
of, the to-day and to-morrow of the new life.

Rosalie was of to-day. How strong and womanly she had been this
morning, the girl whose life had been bounded by this Chaudiere, with a
metropolitan convent and hospital as her only glimpses of the busy world.
She would fit in anywhere--in the highest places, with her grace, and her
nobleness of mind, arcadian, passionate and beautiful. There came upon
him again the feeling of the evening before, when he saw her standing in
his doorway, the night about them, jealous affection, undying love, in
her eyes. It quickened his steps imperceptibly. He passed a stream, and
glanced down into a dark pool involuntarily. It reflected himself
clearly. He stopped short. "Is this you, Beauty Steele?" he said, and
he caught his brown beard in his hand. "Beauty Steele had brains and no
heart. You have heart, and your wits have gone wool-gathering. No
matter!

What is not mine I may not hold,
(Ah, hark the hunter's horn!)'"

he sang, and came quickly along the stream where the flax-beaters worked