one but you in all my life, Rosalie." And also, there was that letter
from Chaudiere, which said that in the hour when the greatest proof of
his love must be given he would give it. Reading the letter again,
hatred, doubt, even sorrow, passed from her, and her imagination pictured
the hour when, disguise and secrecy ended, he would step forward before
all the world and say: "I take Rosalie Evanturel to be my wife." Despite
the gusts of emotion that swayed her at times, in the deepest part of her
being she trusted him completely.

When she reached the hospital this Sunday afternoon her step was quick,
her smile bright--though she had not been to confession as was her duty
on Easter day. The impulse towards it had been great, but her secret was
not her own, and the passionate desire to give relief to her full heart
was overborne by thought of the man. Her soul was her own, but this
secret of their love was his as well as hers. She knew that she was the
only just judge between.

Soon after she entered the ward, the chief surgeon said that all that
could be done for her father had now been done, and that as M. Evanturel
constantly asked to be taken back to Chaudiere (he never said to die,
though they knew what was in his mind), he might now make the journey,
partly by river, partly by land. It seemed to the delighted and excited
Rosalie that Jo Portugais had been sent to her as a surprise, and that
his team of dogs was to take her father back.

She sat by her father's bed this beautiful, wonderful Sunday afternoon,
and talked cheerfully, and laughed a little, and told M. Evanturel of the
dogs, and together they looked out of the window to the far-off hills, in
their golden purple, beyond which, in the valley of the Chaudiere, was
their little home. With her father's hand in hers the girl dreamed