After a time Belle-Ann arose wearily to retire. Then she laid her troubled head on the pillow and closed her tear-wet eyes and finally dropped into a restive sleep. And in this furtive slumber a titanic, stirring dream came to her. The ethereal universe convulsed and burst asunder, and opened up to her startled vision a celestial theatre of glory that gripped her heart with its untold resplendence.

And roundabout, leagues high, gloss-buffed walls of amethyst, and gleaming pillars of pearl girded this splendor. And above this scintillating heavenly realm an amphitheatre of sinuous clouds circulated, charged with pigments and prismed lustres; shot, lanced and plumed with a woof of multi-colors that no tongue could tell; and out from this spectacle of molten glory, a multitudinous horde emerged, trooping through its liquid opalescence.

And the angels reveled, flapping their wings in the starlight to the throbbing rhythm of ten thousand silver lutes. And out beneath the proscenium arch of this fantastic gilded dream, an archangel rode and a beloved face looked down upon the girl. It was a chaste, smiling face; a sacrament of love, replete with amity and forgiveness.

And the knowing eyes were diademed with a specific message. And the vision bore straight down to earth upon her; and she lifted up her arms to meet it. And the whir of its pinions awoke her. She slipped out of bed and stood erect, her bosom lifting and her eyes looking through the dark after this receding apparition.

And there as she stood alone in that small hour of the night, a great Presence came into the room and an unseen hand reached out and touched her soul.

Beside the little white bed Belle-Ann bent her knee and bowed down her head until the curls spread out on the coverlet. And lo! a sword of divine light dipped down and penetrated the cryptic catacomb hidden in her heart and pierced its gnawing, pillaging tenant, and killed her ill, uncouth creed; and drove her lingering sorrow out, purging her being free of the chaotic fires of revenge-thirst that was slowly but surely searing her soul.

And when she rose up, a plenipotent strength of understanding had lifted her crying spirit out and up to a sanctuary of truth; and she stood in the early hour of coming day, serene and triumphant, with the lustre of a conquering light in her purposeful eyes, and faced a new world.

It was dawn. Amid a theatre of opalescent clouds reefed in the east, the sun diffused its glory, and shaped rubescent coral columns, edging its facade with azure and gold. The air was rife with the musks of the blossomed mountain-sides, and a medley of bird-music emanated from a hundred species, flitting and flapping their wet wings in the morning dew.

Belle-Ann tapped gently on Miss Worth's door. She stepped lightly into the room. Miss Worth was wide awake and paused, struck with the pure radiance of the girl's face.

"At last!" ejaculated Miss Worth triumphantly. She kissed and hugged Belle-Ann in the exuberance of her joy and enthusiasm. Belle-Ann's eyes were clear and wide with a new light. The mote that had floated in their depths was gone for all time. And Miss Worth saw before her the most charming character and perfect specimen of young girlhood that fortune had ever led her to. "At last—you understand now, Belle-Ann?" she said, drawing her over to the edge of her bed.

"Yes, I do understand, Miss Worth," answered the girl, her face dimpled with smiles that betokened the calm and serenity of a new-found peace and faith.

"I understand, deahest Miss Worth," she repeated, "but I don't understand how I understand—it is all so deeply mysterious—so wonderful—to think of these wasted years! Oh!—if I could only see Lem!"

"And now," observed Miss Worth, "is it right for Lem to kill the man?" pursued Miss Worth tentatively. Belle-Ann arose quickly from the bed, spurred by the thought that she now miraculously regarded as a two-edged wrong, and a direct offense against God.

"Oh!" she exclaimed regretfully, "how could I ever have thought it right—how could I? It's ignorance—it's downright ignorance—I see it all plainly now, my deah, sweet, true friend. I see it all just as you-all promised me long ago that I would see it—instead of lightening Lem's sorrows I was adding to them—I was making his burden harder to endure—I was dragging him down to misery, not knowing any better—it's terrible, Miss Worth—it's pure blind ignorance—I can't believe now that I did that. I'm guilty—guilty—guilty—if Lem kills the revenuer, I, too, am guilty, for I will now tell you, Miss Worth, I not only asked Lem to kill the man, as I told you-all—but I demanded it against Lem's love for me—offered a prize—a reward for the revenuer's dead body. Lem begged to kiss me on parting—I wouldn't even kiss him good-by—he kissed my hair, not my lips—I can see him now standing up thah holding out his arms to me—I was mad for the sight of that officer, dead. If Lem kills him it will be I who helped to chain an anchor of crime to Lem's poor wretched life—to drag him down. I did nothing to uplift him,—nothing to incite him to look for bright things in the future—my whole heart was aflame with revenge. Oh! what a miserable thing it is! I was mad; weak-spirited; blind with ignorance—and to think that I boasted of it to you! As I stand heah now, I can't believe I did that monstrous thing. And Lem up thah, his eyes and thoughts fixed downward—down on the trail of revenge, a path that leads to eternal unhappiness. I can't wait, Miss Worth—I won't rest until I see Lem. I hope nothing has happened to him. I'll lead him out of it all. I'll show him the way to life as God meant us to live. I'll lead him out, just as you, my deahest, kindest friend—just as you have led me away from the pit around which I had beaten a path with all of my foolish years of life—you led me away from a seething pit of misery, Miss Worth; a cauldron into which I would surely have tumbled, soul and all, in time. Now—now—it's different; now—it's all changed—life looks like a beautiful picture to me now. But, oh!—how I pity the benighted sufferers up thah in the mountains—if there was only a way to show them—to show them the emoluments of life with the misery of feudal hate eliminated."

Too much overcome with sheer joy to speak, Miss Worth listened to Belle-Ann's earnest declarations and watched her smiling, confident, beautiful features with a sense of having, just here, achieved one of the greatest conquests of her missionary life.

Belle-Ann walked to the window, a new exquisite incarnation of girlhood. With a thankful, gracious heart, ready and primed for the wonders of which she now had a divine intuition, she gazed across to the mountain summits, touched with the iridescent vapors, figured by the rising sun. She watched the veil-like mist gradually rise over the river where it lingered like a film of bluish wood smoke. She listened to the clamorous carols of the birds, and there was a song in her heart and inwardly she was stirred with all the inspirations that accompany the placidity of a spirit untroubled and immaculate. The chapel chimes suddenly pealed out their morning anthems, and its music tinkled sweetly across the senses of the girl whose soul was throbbing in perfect attune.

From the sublimity of her momentary reverie, Miss Worth's gentle voice aroused Belle-Ann.

"Belle-Ann," she said, "would a bit of news before breakfast be distasteful?"

The girl cast a quick, expectant look toward Miss Worth, whose face was symbolical of still another revelation.

"I can bear anything," answered Belle-Ann. "I can now appreciate more than ever any glad news—life can hold no sorrow now that I cannot endure bravely—don't hesitate to tell me—I am unafraid."

"Well—it is not by any means fearful news, my dear; on the contrary, it's the most delightful surprise imaginable—the only thing I fear is that you will not forgive us for what will doubtless present itself to your mind as a rank conspiracy."

Belle-Ann laughed and squeezed the hand that crept into hers.

"When you are concerned, you are forgiven anything in advance—you-all couldn't commit anything, Miss Worth, that I could hold against you a second," she assured, laughingly.

The older woman fell pensive for a moment.

"Belle-Ann—I have known this for a long time—Colonel Tennytown asked me to acquaint you with this when I thought fit—I think the proper time is now at hand—Colonel Tennytown was your mother's father, Belle-Ann."