Beyond this comforting assurance of my religion, there was but one idea floating through my confused and fever-consumed brain, and that was a longing vision rather than an idea—a vision of my mother's downy, rose-scented beds; and then, as next best, of the heaps of feathers, covered with gay Indian blankets, which constituted the pride of the Kaskaskian homes. Oh, to feel a thick pillow under my head, to stretch my aching limbs on the yielding feathers! It was the one thing in life I wanted. I longed for rest as a tired infant longs for his mother's soft breast, and tender arms. The hope of it alone gave me courage to drag my weighted feet over the last two miles of our way.

It was a little strange that the realization of the bliss of repose was my first conscious thought after an illness of many days, so that I could never realize that more than a night had intervened between the longing and the realization, the agony and the relief. My first conscious moment lasted just long enough for me to appreciate the comfort of my couch; almost immediately I sank again into sleep or unconsciousness. The next time I came to myself I was not only wide awake, but alert and curious as I opened my eyes to note my surroundings. They were rough limed walls with a low sloping ceiling; bright-hued Indian rugs were upon the floor, and half-burned logs on heavy dog-irons, with sputtering candle ends, burning upon a round stand, in the farthest corner. In the shadow of the corner sat a figure, its head against the wall. Some one had been good enough to sit up all the night with me, and now that day was breaking, his eyes could be kept open no longer, and he had fallen into a doze. I would be very quiet and not wake him.

Presently the figure stirred, rose and came to the bedside. I recognized Clark, even in the dimness of the gray dawn.

"You have been watching me, my Colonel?" I questioned, trying to smile, and to put out the hand that was too feeble to answer to my will. Clark came closer, saw my purpose, gave my hand a warm pressure, and lifted me a little higher on my pillows.

"Have I been very ill?" I asked.

"You have been near enough the happy hunting ground to know the way, my lad. But, thank God, you are better, and will live long enough, I trust, to forget the route before you take another journey in that direction."

"Where are we?"

"In Kaskaskia, in one of the loft rooms of the Commandant's house."

"Is Ellen below?"

"Yes, and asleep, I hope; she and AngÉlique tend you by day, LÉgÈre, Givens and I by night; but you must not talk yet a while; that's Dr. Lafonte's orders. Drink this and go to sleep."

I obeyed like a child, settling myself deeper in the feathers, with a sigh of content.

Upon my third awaking, I recognized Ellen's voice, and felt her soft hand upon my brow.

"Ellen!" I whispered, and opened my eyes to look at the face bending above mine with the rapture a saint might feel upon seeing some beatific vision, long prayed for.

"Do not talk, Cousin Donald," she said, beaming a smile of cheerful affection upon me; "Dr. Lafonte says you must be very quiet for a few days more."

I managed, despite my weakness, to get hold of her hand, and clung to it feebly. "I will be perfectly quiet," I answered in tones so weak that I wondered if it could be really I who was speaking, "if you will sit beside me and hold my hand."

She smiled, flushed a little, and as she held a glass of cordial to my lips said coaxingly, "If you'll drink this and go to sleep, I will." Then she sat down beside me, and held my nerveless fingers in her warm, soft clasp, till I was dreaming an odd jumble of pleasant visions through all of which flitted Ellen's face and form.

This sort of half dream life went on I know not how long. I only remember an incident here and there—floating faces, cups held to my lips, and then the pleasant drifting off into long periods of dreamless rest. At last I was strong enough to sit part of each day in a high-backed chair, and after that I saw little of Ellen. She came twice each day for a brief visit, but AngÉlique brought my broth and wine, helped me from bed to chair, smoothed my pillows, and sometimes sang me to sleep with wild, sweet Acadian ballads. Clark came in and out with cheery presence, and encouraging words—but now that summer had come again he had more affairs to administer, and so less time to give me. Givens would linger, though, when he came on his daily visit, to tell me the gossip of the village, of which the half wild, half drowsy life suited him well. LÉgÈre and others visited me almost daily, and my monotonous life was not a lonely one, though forced inaction grew more and more irksome as my strength returned.

"Clark," I said to him one day, "I can't stand this suspense any longer. I want to know all, even if it be the worst. Since I am better, Ellen comes in only when others are here, and makes prompt excuses to get away. Her kindness is barely cousinly. And you too seem to avoid being left alone with me. Have you spoken to Ellen?"

"Yes, I have spoken—though to do so, comported not fairly with our compact. But my feelings overmastered me. I have avoided telling you till you should be stronger."

"I am strong enough now," I answered, though I trembled from head to foot; "tell me all—and quickly."

"It was one evening when we thought you dying. I followed her from the room, and was moved to tell her your last words to me—when you left her to my care, and bade me give her perfect freedom in the disposition of her life, but left us your blessing could she love me enough to link her fate with mine. She wept afresh at the recital of your words; and then with friendly candor there was no mistaking, thanked me for my love, and accepted my offer of protection, even while she told me that whether you lived or died there was no hope for me. Her quiet decision awed me, and forced back all the protestations I had formulated against her vow of nunnery. She declared it was no rash or hasty one, made to be repented of, but that she held it to be more sacred and binding than any other claim upon her heart and life, and that she waited only for your restoration to health to go, under Father Gibault's escort, and yours, if you would, to the convent at Quebec."

"Comrade," I said, putting out my shaking hand to clasp his, "that is not the news I expected—but it is much more distressing to me."

"Perhaps I am wrong to tell you, and am but making the harder for you the final disappointment," continued Clark after a silence of some moments, during which he seemed to be thinking deeply, "but I am not convinced that Ellen looks forward to the life of a nun. I believe she once made a foolish vow and thinks it sacrilege to break it. And if I can read a woman's heart through her face, McElroy, Ellen O'Neil feels for you a tenderness that is neither usual nor natural for a woman to feel towards one she regards only as a distant kinsman. I believe she loves you—yet I cannot honestly say I think you will win her. Her will is strong, and her religion has so far been the dominant principle of her life. One side of her nature is fitted to the martyr's role, the other side is strongly human—throbs with the full current of youth, loves daring and doing, experiencing and enjoying, even as you and I. Which part of her complex nature will triumph I cannot foresee. This I can say honestly, comrade," and Clark laid a hand upon my knee, and his truth-speaking eyes looked straight into mine, "even with my own grievous disappointment fresh upon me, I would see Ellen the happy and joy-giving wife of my true-hearted friend with delight, compared to the feeling with which I shall see her the self-immolated 'bride of the church'—which is, in my opinion, but another name for victim to superstition and priestly tyranny. The fates grant that you may win her, McElroy."

An hour I sat in deep thought—then I made my vow. If in Ellen's heart there dwelt but the weakest germ of love for me, it should grow on until it uprooted all other influences. I bade the whole Roman Church defiance. A girl's superstition to come between Ellen and her life's fulfillment? between me and lifelong happiness? I swore it should not be! She should love me more and more till love mastered her, choking superstition and conquering her will. Once convinced, she would see it all as I did, and be glad all her life that I had saved her from a fatal mistake. I girded myself afresh for the conflict, as it were, each hour of the days that followed, and planned my campaign against a maiden's heart as carefully as a general plans an advance into the enemy's country. My first move must be to keep her from reaching a final decision as long as possible; my second to take her, upon some pretext, back to the valley with me.

Meanwhile I hastened my recovery by every means possible, watching impatiently the summer moving on to autumn. From my window I could see the slow, gliding river, glancing in the sun's rays, and the stagnant, spreading bayous, gay with spotted lilies, and fringed with swaying grasses, while birds, as gayly colored as the blossoms, rode blithely upon the springy reeds. The meadows were green with waving corn, or yellow with the ripened grass, and the rich odor of the wild grapes came upon the breeze with other and more elusive fragrances. But gliding river, reed-fringed bayou, and luxuriant meadow, were not half so fair to my real vision as the dear valley to my imaginary one. I longed to see the undulating blue ranges, and the varied landscape, with the comfortable farmhouses dotted over it. I was eager to be off for home, to hear the late news from the war, and to bear Ellen away from Romish influences.

At last spirit could wait the body's leisure no longer, and though still weak and emaciated, I made a firm resolve to start for home within a week or two. Then I sent AngÉlique with a message to Ellen, demanding a private interview.

"Your message is earnest, almost peremptory, Cousin Donald," said Ellen, coming in with a playful smile on her lips; "am I to have another scolding, and for what? My conscience acquits me this time; I have stopped coquetting with the officers, or walking alone without the village; therefore I know not what wrong I have done to deserve a kinsman's reprimand."

"'Tis not to scold, but to entreat that I have sent for you, Ellen," I replied. "Will you sit down here before me, and give me your serious attention for a brief while?" Perhaps it was the tone of my voice, or it may have been that my face betrayed me, for Ellen flushed and dropped her lids an instant over her eyes, as she took the chair I had indicated, yet saying with an air of banter:

"My 'serious attention,' Cousin Donald? You plead for it as if 'twere a rare favor, and one most difficult to obtain;—am I so seldom serious?"

"Two weeks from to-day, Ellen, I start back to Virginia," ignoring her playful manner; "my duty calls me thither; but I cannot leave you here in Kaskaskia without lawful guardian or protector. You have long known, Ellen, that I love you with my whole being, that the dearest and most sacred wish of my heart is to make you my wife. Will you marry me, Ellen, and go back to Virginia to a home of your own, with the protection and constant devotion of one whose whole life shall be dedicated to your happiness?"

The flush on Ellen's cheeks leaped upward to her brow in a flame of crimson; her eyes grew darker; and upon her face came a look of mingled sorrow, yearning and resolve.

"Oh, my cousin, have I not said it often enough," with the sob-suggesting catch, vibrating like harp tones through her words—"that never can I be wife to any man? Do even you believe that all this time I have been jesting on a subject so sacred—that I have but used pretense of holy calling as a coquettish wile to lure men on? Yet how can I find fault with you for having thought so, since my life has so belied my words? I have been naught but a frivolous coquette these months past—as if I would get all of worldly triumph, and food for vanity possible out of my life, during the respite which circumstances have afforded me from the fulfillment of my vow. Mine has been lip service, only, not yet have I known true heart consecration. But I will know it, Donald, will possess the true nun's heart, if all of self must be immolated by hourly chastisement and self-denial to achieve it. I have solemnly pledged my life to prayer, and penance, and holy service. Will not you, Cousin Donald, my only friend and protector, my one source of human strength, help me to keep my vow to God?" and she clasped her hands in passionate entreaty, and lifted moist eyes and trembling lips to my serious gaze.

"Dear Ellen!" and I spoke with a new emotion of respect for the depth of her feeling, "I want more than aught else to help you, but I do not fully understand, nor see the reason for your being so determined, and feeling so strongly—will you not tell me all, so that I can better understand you? When was this vow you speak of made?"

"That bitter night I was lost upon the mountain, when, numb with cold, and shaken with terror of the wolves pursuing us, I fell from the rearing horse, frightened too by the wild beasts, and lay there in agony of fear and pain, through long hours, listening to the wolves, as they chased the poor horse, and each moment expecting to feel their fangs in my flesh. I prayed as never I had prayed before, to the Holy Virgin and her sacred Son, promising to consecrate all the rest of my life to prayer and humble service, in some rigorous convent, if they would send me deliverance from a violent death. Even as I prayed I fell into sleep, or unconsciousness, and awoke in Father Givens' house. He nursed me back to health, and I had it in my mind to induce him to take me to Baltimore to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, had you not come by with the message from Mr. Jefferson. I saw the scout's desire was to go with you, and I would not stand between him and his wish. Already he had done too much for a willful girl who had no claim upon his charities, save the claim of common humanity. I gave all my energies to persuading him that a life of adventure appealed to me even more strongly than the life of a convent retreat, and so fed his inclination to join in the adventure that he could not resist it. At last he consented to purchase for me the coveted disguise as his foster son, and when once he had seen me wear it, and watched my rifle practice, he grew interested in my plans, and made no further difficulty.

"For the first weeks I was buoyed by the spirit of excitement, and enjoyed the free, outdoor life I had been accustomed to as a child. Not until you and Thomas joined us did I realize the boldness of my deed. I dreaded to have you find me out, yet I could not bear to be left behind in Kentucky. What the result might be haunted my thoughts and my dreams. Again I added daily vows to daily prayers. Were I safely delivered once more, delivered from the coil of questionable circumstances with which I had rashly surrounded myself, I would without delay, find my way to some peaceful convent and atone for all my willful past by years of devout consecration. You know how wonderfully I was delivered—was spared even blame or question; how fortunately I have since been placed.

"Were not all my prayers heard and answered? Dare I then break my vows—lie to the holy Virgin and her sacred Son? Accept divine deliverance, and repay with broken promises, violated oaths? Could you love and trust a wife who would come to you with a sacrilege upon her conscience?"

"My dear one!" answering her solemnly, as she had spoken, and taking the fluttering fingers firmly in my own to still them; "I will not ask you to violate a vow you regard so sacredly. I will live all my life with an unsatisfied longing, an aching, hungry heart, rather than to say one word to urge you against your conscience. But I think you reason and feel morbidly. Is there no other life of consecration to God's service for a woman than that to be found behind convent walls? Think you the life of wife and mother less holy, less self-sacrificing, of less savory incense to God than that of a nun?

"What service can a nun render to God that a consecrated wife and mother may not offer Him? Prayer? Does not the wife pray with added fervor—for herself, that she may live a worthy exemplar to those she loves—for them, with more earnest zeal because love prompts each petition—and for all the world more fervently because those she lives for are a part of it. Deeds of unselfish charity? Are they less in God's sight, believe you, than the daily immolation of her own wishes which each true wife practices upon the altar of domestic duty. And what need we most in this new world? Is it not consecrated men and women to spend all the powers of their being for peace, purity and enlightenment? We hope to found in this virgin land a wondrous republic where freedom of conscience and equal opportunities will be offered to the downtrodden of all nations. But we may not hope to perpetuate such republic, unless there be noble women—women of the unusual intelligence and gifts with which God has honored you—to strive with us toward that ideal."

"There is truth in most you say, Donald," a glow answering mine on her face, her hands still and warm now in mine; "you move me always by your calm reasoning. Yet I am bound by my vow. Did I let my selfish inclinations plead, I might easily persuade myself that your logic is as true for me as it would be for another, not so solemnly pledged as I am. But the very leaning of desire warns me to guard my sacred promises the more sturdily against temptation." In her earnestness she did not realize the half confession she had made, but my heart leaped within me, and a quiver of joy thrilled to my finger tips.

"Tell me, Ellen," and I held her hands in a tighter clasp, and claimed the full gaze of her eyes, "had you never made this vow, could you consent to be my wife—would there have been hope of happiness for me?"

"Oh, Donald!" a cry of entreaty, following the blush that swam upward to the roots of her hair, "it is not fair to ask me—you have promised to help me—you should not make my duty so hard—so very hard for me."

I kissed the hands now cold and trembling again, not with passion, but with reverence on my lips, and laid them gently on her knee; then said, with a mighty effort at self-control—for I would have given the world to take her in my arms, and dared hope she would find it hard to resist me:

"Forgive me, Ellen; I will ask you nothing; you shall follow your duty as you see it. If you feel your promise binds you to the utmost self-sacrifice, I shall use no power your confidence has given me to persuade you from your duty. But why should you remain in this wilderness unprotected—for I must needs follow my soldier's duty back to Virginia—waiting the uncertain chance of safe convoy to Quebec, when you could go under my escort to the valley, stay there with your lawful protectors till the war is over, and then be escorted by them, with due consent and proper honor to your chosen retreat in Baltimore? There you will not only have wider sphere of usefulness among people of your own race and language, but you will be near your parents' graves and in reach of your relatives, should they need you, or you them. There I might even visit you sometimes—it would be a consolation and a joy had I only the happiness to hold your hand an instant, and to catch the old dear smile through the grating of convent bars.

"Moreover, Ellen, though I say this not in harshness, you would feel, I think, surer of God's blessing on your sacrifice if you were to enter your holy life at peace with all men—without bitterness in your heart toward the unfaithful guardians to whom your parents left you."

"That thought has troubled me," said Ellen, tears springing to her eyes, and making a soft film over their velvet blueness; "it does not seem meet for me to take the sacred veil with a spirit unforgiving and unforgiven. I would welcome the opportunity to beg Uncle Thomas' forgiveness, and to apologize to Aunt Martha for my willfulness. I had no wish, believe me, Donald, to cause them suffering. I thought to relieve Uncle Thomas of an obstacle to his domestic happiness, and Aunt Martha of a source of much annoyance. Remorse has pursued me since I knew of Thomas' following me, that he was willing to desert his parents and his religion for me. I made what reparation I could by sending him back to them, and his nature is not one to grieve long. If you, Cousin Donald, would but carry to them my repentance, and obtain their forgiveness, and their consent to my taking the veil, I might be able to do sufficient penance for my other sins."

"The truest reparation you can make them, Ellen, the one they would most value, and which will alone relieve them from the reproach of their consciences, and the odium of their neighbors, will be to go back with me, live in peace and amity with them for a time, and go from them in kindness to your convent seclusion."

"It is indeed a cup of humbling you would hold to my lips," said Ellen, paling suddenly—"yet doubtless I need to drink of that very cup. Pride, I think, is my besetting sin."

"Pride and love of your own will, Ellen,—unseemly faults for a fair and gentle woman—yet offset by rare virtues."

"Do not flatter me, Donald; let me face the truth; in showing me my real self, you are my truest friend. Pride and self-will! when I should possess 'a meek and quiet spirit,' and 'an humble and a contrite heart' before I shall be ready for my holy calling."

"May it not be, Ellen, that you are mistaking your determination to fulfill a rash vow, made under exciting circumstances, for a true call founded on real consecration of heart and spirit? Talk with Father Gibault; he is a holy man, yet a just and reasonable one; tell him all, and ask him to help you to determine your path of duty. Then come and tell me your decision—and with God's help, dear one, I will add to yours all my strength and courage, to enable you to follow where your conscience leads you. But oh, Ellen, will you not tell me once, just once, that you do love me, and would give yourself to me if you were free?"

"Donald! Donald! you must not disturb my soul by such entreaties!" she cried in pleading tones. "Do you not see that if once it were said, it could never again be unsaid?" and she left me hastily, her head drooping like a flower upon its stalk.