Away From the World, Soul meets Soul.

"I'm more than pleased with Edith's improvement," remarked George to Alma, as they sat upon the porch awaiting Harold's return from exploring the premises, and Edith's awakening from her daily siesta.

"But if you had seen her one week ago," returned Alma sadly, "And, since then, seen her fail daily, you would be as discouraged as I am."

George looked at Alma steadily. "What has made this change? There must be a cause, Alma; are you hiding anything from me?"

Alma dropped her eyes evasively. Should she tell George everything? After all, it was Edith's affairs. It savored of unfaithfulness to her to betray her confidence. But then Edith's health! George could do nothing for her, if he was deceived in any way. He ought to know what a selfish, suspicious husband she had. With the thought of Howard, Alma's face tingled. How he left at an hour's notice, without saying goodbye to Edith! He had lingered just long enough to see Mr. Holt go.

Suddenly Alma looked up to meet Walter's earnest gaze.

"George, let us go to some more private spot, and I will tell you what you ought to know."

"I ought to know everything," replied George gravely, as they left the chairs. "Otherwise I am useless professionally."

They walked down the path until they reached the same little summerhouse where Edith had laid in her chair and listened to Alma's confidence.

Edith, from her window at the house, saw them through the trees and watched them enter. Then they were shut out from her view by the dense foliage.

She stifled a quick sob. Nervously she resumed her dressing. It was George's first day in Boonville. She could not rest, but sought solitude on that pretext. Now she must soon join them and act her part. Slowly she dressed, delaying the ordeal as long as possible. Her toilet at last completed, she seated herself near the open window and looked out upon the lovely lake view.

Her thoughts today had tortured her almost beyond endurance.

"Would that I could lose myself in its depths," she said, wearily, and a great melancholy superseded her sterner mood.

"That is a wrong thought," she said to herself; "Mr. Holt would call it the result of the selfishness that makes for sin."

Her eyes wandered to the table near by where lay the chief cause of her distraction—the book—the one resented gift from a friend. As yet, she had not even unwrapped it. A peculiar feeling made her decide to leave it untouched until her husband's anger had passed. Howard had shown no signs of relenting. Not a word had he written since his return to New York. Her check was sent as usual—that was all. Money! That was all he seemed to think that she needed! She tried to regard him kindly. She tried to be generous.

She failed. Mr. Holt had gone. His influence was withdrawn. In his place had come George—noble George, for whom her heart beat wildly. Yes, she acknowledged it to herself. Now that it was too late, she knew the error that she had made. When free, she had refused his love. Now that it was a sin to acknowledge his supremacy over her heart, she was forced to realize it most painfully.

Mr. Holt's goodness had temporarily lifted her above her sinful longings, even; he had brought her to a state of mind where she really desired to love Howard in the same old easy way that she had always cared for him.

But now her good angel had left her side—just at the time that she most needed him and his help, and the influx of passionate longing and regret for the unconquerable past was overpowering.

How weak she was! Had she fallen from all her highest ideas of right! She tried to pray, but her lips were as dumb as her heart.

Suddenly, she arose and straightened herself in stern resolve. Heart and mind were aroused in a desperate determination to overcome. She left her retirement and sought the porch, there to await the rest of the party.

Though she was not the girl of bloom that she had been on her husband's arrival, her health was assuredly regained in spite of Alma's anxious fears.

She espied Harold first, coming toward the house with an armful of branches.

"Just the kind that you can make dandy, white whips with," he informed Edith as he neared the porch. Coming up the steps, he threw the whole bunch down at her feet.

"That will be enough, I guess. Where's cousin George? He promised to make them for me."

Edith stroked his curly head gently.

"Your cousin is taking a walk with your mother. Come sit with me awhile."

Harold eyed her with boyish frankness.

"I'd rather get cousin. You can't make those, you know. I'll find them pretty quick, all righty!"

Just as he turned to go, Edith espied George and Alma appearing to view.

"There they are, Harold!" she said brightly.

"Bully!" exclaimed Harold, and with eyes dancing with delight, he ran down the path to meet them.

George saw the boy coming. He held out his hand as usual, but his face remained set and stern. Alma was flushed and excited. Neither expressions did the child notice.

"Just going to hunt for you," he cried boyishly. "Lots of whips for you to make, Cousin George! Whole heap!"

Alma looked toward George, anxiously.

"Cousin George doesn't feel like being bothered, dear."

"Oh, but he promised!" the boy exclaimed, with a face suddenly full of miserable disappointment.

George forced a smile. "There, Harold, don't sulk! You know I don't like that. I'll make you a few now—a whole lot tomorrow."

"Thanks!" he cried boisterously, throwing his cap in the air, and then turning to run back to his precious find.

They were all soon seated in a circle, George busy whittling. Alma realized it was the last thing he wished to do. She had witnessed a display of feeling from him that she never guessed his calm nature capable of. "His friendship for Edith must indeed be very strong," she thought. She was sure he was placing his feelings under constraint at the present time. Perhaps he would like to be alone with Edith to study her, and judge for himself just how far her troubles were influencing her health.

"Harold," she exclaimed suddenly, "wouldn't you like Mus to show you some lovely deer?"

"Where?" asked Harold, quickly.

"O, Mus can show you," she answered, nodding her head mysteriously. "Cousin George can take Mrs. Hester out on the lake in the meantime. Then when we have seen the lovely deer, we'll follow them in another boat, and see if you can row as well as Cousin George."

"Whew!" returned Harold, with a low whistle, more expressive than words.

George looked up, gratefully to Alma.

"Would you like to go, Edith," he said quietly.

"Yes, indeed," replied Edith, with a thrill of genuine pleasure.

"Hurry, boy, away with the whips. Hide them safely, sir, until tomorrow."

Harold was only too ready to obey, and in ten minutes the little group was divided.

Silently, Edith walked by George's side, down to the lake. George noticed her embarrassment, and talked of the place and surroundings.

Once seated in the cushioned stern of the boat, Edith gave herself up to this pleasure with a dreamy joy, overcoming her lonely strivings. For a few minutes, only the light splash of the oars broke the silence.

When they had almost lost the house from view, George looked around upon the big expanse of water.

"This is your first outing on the lake?" he asked gently.

"Yes, my first. It is delightful," she replied softly.

"Then you cannot direct me which way to row," he asked.

"That little bend," she answered, nodding her head toward an outlet a hundred feet in advance, "leads to the next lake. There is a perfect chain of six lakes, six miles in all, and each as beautiful as this one, so they say."

"Not dangerous in a storm?" asked George, watching carefully a few approaching clouds.

"They say not, except in case of a wind storm. Then the lakes shut in by the hills, get the full force of the wind. That is a rare occasion, though."

Thus ordinary conversation put them more at ease.

On they conversed, and on they rowed, passed the first three lakes, disguising from one another the keen delight each one felt, at this drifting alone together through the calm stillness of nature.

Several times George stopped and listened for the sound of oars which would signify Alma's coming. But each time all was silent, and on they spun.

Edith was surprised at her own happiness. Was it nature's whispering or George's strong, manly presence, that made her feel so sure of herself, and subdued her restless spirit?

Finally, the fourth lake was reached. Its shores were wild and lonely, unlike those of the other lakes. Not a bungalow could be seen. Here and there an opening appeared, where open camp had been kept. Otherwise it was a perfect wilderness of pine and brush.

"Would you like to land and rest awhile?" George asked. "The clouds have gathered slightly, but it promises no rain for several hours."

Edith gave consent and George made for one of the camp openings.

When they had alighted and fastened the boat to an old stump, of a tree George looked about the clearing.

"I have it!" he exclaimed, and, leaving Edith, he returned in a few moments with two logs.

"Rather rustic, isn't it?" he said. "Best we can do, however. There! Sit on this, and rest yourself against the tree. Are you comfortable?"

"Very, thank you," she replied. "And you?"

"Shall do the same," he said, adjusting the log and leaning against the tree opposite to hers, with a full sigh of satisfaction.

For a few moments he feasted his eyes upon her loveliness. The green forest and open camp made an odd setting for Edith's pale beauty.

There was nothing in his glance to embarrass Edith. Far too honorable to convey his feelings through even unspoken language, he simply gazed at her with open, friendly scrutiny.

She smiled back at him.

"Do you pronounce me well?" she asked.

"To all appearances—yes. After two weeks, you can return to New York any time you wish."

"After two weeks? Why not in a few days?"

"We want your good condition to be lasting. Mrs. Lambert tells me you looked better one week ago than you do now. Did you feel better then?"

It seemed unkind for George to ask her such a question. But he was determined to see for himself how deep a trouble was hers. His eyes regarded her intently. He noticed the sudden droop of the eye-lids to hide the shadow beneath them. Her lips quivered in spite of herself, and her hands toyed nervously with the lace of her dress.

A sudden rush of pity destroyed his own self-control. Leaning toward her, he laid one strong hand on her two small fair ones.

"Edith, look at me! Tell me—your old friend, little girl—what troubles you?"

Compelled, she raised her eyes to his. The violet in them seemed deeper and darker with a great overpowering sadness. It expressed such melancholy depression, that George's whole being thrilled with the pain of it.

"Thank you for your sympathy George. If you are my friend, you will ask me nothing."

"You will not confide in me?" he pleaded, his whole heart's love unconsciously vibrating in his voice.

The touch of his hand and his compassionate voice filled her with an eagerness that frightened.

She longed to lay bare her heart,—to seek solace from this man who had awakened the only real love her heart had known. Why couldn't she have this consolation at least? He would never know that she loved him. She would always be true to Howard—George would despise her if she were not.

George's eyes were asking her to answer—asking her to confide in his great heart. She felt their power. She drank in their intense sympathy—then suddenly she grew deadly pale. She shrank away from him like a frightened child.

"Edith, what have I done? Speak! Surely you cannot fear me?" he asked gently.

Afraid of him? No! But she dared not tell him she feared her own poor, weak self.

"Don't, George, O don't!" she said pitifully. "Ask me nothing. I am not strong, that is all. I ought not to have come. Let us get home quickly. Alma may become alarmed."

He drew away and contemplated her with surprise and concern.

"Poor child! Whatever troubles you, let it be your own sorrow then, dear girl. I never wished to worry you about it, Edith."

"O, I knew you did not," she replied miserably.

She arose, and for a moment, weakly leaned against the tree.

"Let me help you," he said gently.

She allowed him to assist her into the boat.

When he had rearranged her cushions, and seen that she was comfortably seated, he took the oars and started the boat quickly.

A feeling of intense shame kept her face averted. Neither spoke for some time.

The setting sun was entirely hid by heavy ominous clouds. Small ones were gathering from every direction.

"I hope we get ahead of this storm," remarked George anxiously. "These mountain lakes are so treacherous."

Suddenly, little ripples and currents appeared upon the glassy surface of the lake. They were about a quarter of a mile from the shore.

George stopped rowing and scanned the heavens intently.

"We must make for shelter until this is over," he said decisively. "See! There is an apology of a log cabin over there. It will protect us from the rain, anyway."

He quickly swung the boat about and headed for the small encampment.

A sudden squall caught the boat sideways.

Edith caught the rim of the boat to steady herself.

"Not a minute to lose," said George grimly.

Hardly had he spoken when a second squall struck the frail craft. With a suddenness almost incredible, the boat was lifted almost entirely out of the water and then with a heavy splash, it completely reversed.

So quickly had the wind accomplished its treachery, that Edith realized nothing until she felt herself rising to the surface of the water, while a strong arm grasped her own with an effort.

George kept her above water with one hand while he held on to one end of the boat with the other. The wind was blowing strong, but no rain had as yet fallen.

Edith felt little or no fear, and with almost a smile she asked George.

"Now what can we do?"

"You are not afraid?" he asked in doubtful surprise.

"Not with you," she answered quickly.

"Then we must swim ashore. Another squall and the boat may strike us," he said fearfully.

"I cannot swim," she said, for the first time feeling the fear of the dark water around them.

"No need. Hold on to my shoulder. Don't let go—not even if we go under a wave. I will bring you up safely again. You understand?"

"Yes," she obeyed, and with a strange feeling of perfect protection, she gave herself up to his guidance.

George struck out in a bold stroke. For a time he swam with rapid progress. Then his stroke slackened and he made decided effort.

Edith had been watching the fast nearing shore. Now she watched his face. It was growing white and drawn. She gave a little scream and unconsciously tightened her hold. By a desperate effort George kept them above water.

"Relax your hold!" he shouted, hoarsely, and she could see the words wasted precious strength.

She tried to calm herself. Her heart beat wildly. Never once did she look from George's deathlike face.

On he swam, straining every nerve and muscle. At times his eyes almost closed.

Finally the shore was reached. Wading through the shallow water, he dragged Edith quickly to the dry beach.

"Safe!" he exclaimed. Then with a low cry of pain he staggered forward.

Edith caught him by the arm. With a strength born of the hour, she prevented him from falling to the ground. Quickly she sat beside him and lifted his head upon her lap.

"George, you are hurt," she cried fearfully.

"Yes, please unloosen my vest. The boat struck me here," he said, touching his chest to denote the spot.

Carefully she uncovered the wound. Blood covered shirt and vest.

"O! George! George!" she sobbed piteously.

George struggled to a sitting position.

"Edith, don't waste time with me. It is my finish. Go around to the point where you can be seen. They will surely come for us some time. Go! It is almost dark!"

She leaned over him, until her fair hair touched his own.

"Leave you now? Never!"

Her tone fascinated him and he looked at her with growing intensity in his now sunken eyes. Soul met soul in that long, hungry gaze.

Behind them the storm raged through the forest. Before them the waves beat wildly. The time and place completely separated them from the world.

Alone with death—and George.

The fearful past was entirely obliterated. The eternal future—what might it bring? Only the fleeting now was surely hers!

She watched his face becoming gray. His eyes still shone upon her.

"George," she murmured, putting both arms around his drooping head, "we shall die together."

His eyes closed, and she uttered a cry of misery.

"George! speak! speak! You must tell me once more you love me!"

His eyes opened upon her with a great joy.

"Edith, you—mean—that?"

"Yes! Yes!" she answered, and her gaze so intense, seemed to thrill him to life. He struggled to his feet. She arose to support him.

With sudden new strength he held her off.

"No! No! You are his—his by right. God help me!"

Edith leaned forward eagerly.

"George, I was his in life—now death unites us both! I love you, George! I love you!"

"God bless those dear words!" she heard him whisper.

Then with hands imploringly outstretched, he fell at her feet.