ONCE again from the lady’s journal:

“It is impossible for me to describe the hope, peace, and comradeship that have transformed this place into a little nest, where it had been so terrible a prison before. The sunshine outside continues, and I know that it is but a matter of days when my father will come. It seems unaccountable to me that anything in the world could have stayed him so long; but Dr. Mal-bone assures me that the roads and mountains are still utterly impassable; that the roads, besides being strewn with fallen trees, are in places washed away, and that our one means of escape will be afoot, on our own account. We are now talking it over all the time, and are ready to start at the first favorable moment. My leg is nearly well; only a slight pain after severe exertion, and a most embarrassing weakness there, are the trouble now. But he is putting me through excellent treatment and training to overcome all that; and he has given me the joyous promise that we shall make the start in a week from to-day.

“And now I must write of some other wonderful things that have happened. The change that has come in our mutual bearing and understanding is so incredible that I hardly dare put it down here, lest it prove a dream. I made a vow some time ago in this journal that I would make this man need me and want me. That victory is won. And I know that in winning it over him I have won it over myself. O God, how blind, how stupidly, sordidly blind, I have been all these years! In the depths of my wretched selfishness, in the dark caverns of my meanness, I had never dreamed of the real human heart throbbing and aching and hoping all about me; it has taken this strange man to drag me forth into the light. And not at all willingly or consciously has he done so. There is a sting in that. At times I hate him still when I think of it all. It was the silent, intangible, undirected force radiating from him that has wrought the change. I feel no humiliation in saying this. I say it and know it in spite of the great distance that separates us,—the social barriers that mean so little and do so much. It will remain with me forever, whatever happen, to have known a man; to have known him in his strength and weakness, in his splendid unselfishness and childish reliance; in his simplicity and complexity; in his singleness of purpose and variety of attributes; in his gentleness and ferocity, and, above all, in his wonderful sense of duty. But I wish he were moved by something besides duty.

“There is another thing I must write, and I write it with a consciousness of burning cheeks. At times I find him—rather, I feel him—looking at me with a certain gentleness when I am not observing. What does that mean? Have I learned men so badly that I can mistake its meaning? The most convenient woman will do for the man who may prefer another but inaccessible one. Until we came closer together since the avalanche passed and the sunshine came, I was not a woman to him. No; I was a Duty. But there has now come into his voice and his glance a new quality,—stay! Remember that the weakness of women is their vanity. Could there happen so wonderful a thing as this man’s regard for me of the kind that a woman wants from the man whom she worships? If so, is he too proud, too reserved, too conscious of his present obligation of duty and protection, to make it known? Does he still fear me? Does he still hold in his heart the frightful denunciation that he hurled at me? Does he still loathe me as a murderess? Is my wealth a barrier? Does he lack the courage to dare what every man must dare in order to secure the woman he loves?

“Loves? Why did I write that word? By what authority or right? And yet, of all the words that the sunshine of the soul has placed upon the tongue, that is the sweetest....

“Distressing things have happened since I wrote the foregoing. For a time the stimulation of sunshine and hope, the sure prospect of my release from this prison, worked miracles with his strength, both of body and mind; but three days ago he grew silent and moody, then restless and anxious; by night he was down with a fever, the cause of which I cannot understand. When I see his fleshless chest and arms, I wonder if he has some malady that is killing him, and that he has concealed from me. His drawn face, with the skin tight to breaking on his cheek-bones, and his extreme emaciation, look like consumption; but he has no other symptoms, and he declares that he is perfectly sound. Is my presence so distressing that it alone is killing him? If so, it is murder for me to stay longer. If I only knew!

“Why does he conceal anything from me? What could he have to conceal that it is not right for me to know? And yet I know that the act of concealment could not thus be killing him,—it is the thing he is concealing that has the terror. It would be infinitely better for us both if he let me share it, and, as I am so much stronger than he, I could bear it so much better; the sharing of it would lighten his burden, and my sympathy would give him strength. Why cannot he see all this, when it is so clear to me? I must be patient, patient, patient! That is my watchword now.

“As in the former case, when he was taken ill, so now he prepared for his illness by bringing in a small, but this time utterly inadequate, supply of provisions. Not in a single instance, down to this last attack, has he consented to eat with me; he has always retreated through the rear door and eaten alone. It is now getting hard for me to bear this singular tyranny about the food. He eats with me now, because, being helpless in bed, he cannot avoid it; but he eats so little! It is impossible for him to gain strength in this way, and I am distressed beyond expression. He simply declares that he cannot eat. Singularly enough, he is always urging me of late to eat little, else I shall bring on a long list of disorders that will prevent our escape. For that matter, there is so little left of the store that he brought from the rear that I am uneasy lest the supply be exhausted and he remain stubbornly to his purpose not to trust me to get more from the place behind the rear door. What will be the end of this dreadful situation?

“It seems an odd inconsistency in his nature that this subject of eating should consume so much of his wandering thoughts. In his delirium he paints gorgeous pictures of feasts. He marvels at the splendor of Nero’s banquets, and declares that the people with so much to eat must have been fat and content! I hate to put this down, for it seems treasonable to betray this touch of grossness in a nature so singularly fine. If he thinks so much of eating, why should he be urging me to eat sparingly of the rude things that his larder might afford, and that cost me so much effort to eat with a good grace? It is strange how many unexpected things we learn of others in intimate association!...

“In glancing over these last pages I see how wretchedly I have failed to give the least insight into our life and relations. How could I ever have had the heart to see, much more put in writing, the slightest flaw in so noble a character? It would seem that the sympathy born of this new relation between us ought to touch only the best in my nature. Shame, shame, shame on me! Do I not see his haunting glance follow me everywhere, and resting upon me always with inexpressible gratitude?

“He is almost completely dependent upon me now. I nurse him as I would a child. It would be utterly inadequate to say that this fills me with happiness as being a return of some of the kindness that he has shown me. No, there is something besides that. The gratitude in my heart is great,—greater than I had thought so small and mean a heart could have. I am glad that I have it. But the joy of it all is the doing for this man, without regard to gratitude. To do for him; to nurse him; to cheer him; to feel that he needs me and wants me,—that is my heaven. And although a dreadful fear haunts me that he is dying,—that in some way that I cannot understand I am killing him,—that if he should die my life would be empty and dark,—still, it would be infinitely sweet to have him die in my arms, still needing me, still wanting me. Now that I have written that,—how could I have written it?—I will write more in all shamelessness. I want him to say that he needs me and wants me,—that he needs me and wants me to the end of his life.

“As I have written that much, I will write the rest, else my heart will burst. I love this man. I love him with all my heart, all my soul. I love him for everything that he is, not for anything that he has done. He is the one man whom the great God in His cruel wisdom and merciless providence has sent into my life for me to love. And with my tears wetting these pages, and my soul breathing prayers for his recovery, and his delivery to me, I pledge and consecrate myself to him to the end of my days, whatever may come. With every good impulse within me I will strive to be worthy of so great a heart, so noble a love. I will try to win his love by deserving it....

“An unexpected change for the better has come. Our supply of food had fallen so low that I had about determined to take matters into my own hands, enter the forbidden chamber, and get more provisions, when another idea occurred to me. It was absolutely necessary that we have more food. More important than that was the evident fact that he would die for the need of it if it were not forthcoming. I feared the disturbing effect of my going into the forbidden chamber, and so decided to make a thorough search of the cabin first. Knowing his inexplicable peculiarity on the subject of our food, I suspected that at some time in his mental wandering he may have concealed some in the cabin. So this morning before daylight, while he slept,—his sleeping is incredibly light,—I cautiously made a search of the cabin, and happily found a few nourishing things in the bottom of a box, where he had either concealed them or left them forgotten. These I prepared for him in a most tempting manner. I arranged my own dishes in a way to make him think I had eaten abundantly myself, and told him so when he awoke and refused to eat, urging me to eat what I had prepared for him.

“When I had convinced him that I had eaten all I could, he took a little, gingerly, from my hand. I had laid my plans well. As I fed him I talked incessantly, telling him a story that I knew would interest him. Before he realized what he was doing—his mind was not as alert as it normally is—he had eaten somewhat generously. The effect was magical. Color came to his cheeks and the quiet old sparkle to his eyes. Before long, to my great surprise and delight, he was up, and then went out to note the prospect for our leaving. He came back with a radiant face and buoyant manner, and said,—

“‘My friend, we will start at sunrise to-morrow.’

“My heart gave a great bound. It was a simple matter to make our preparations, as it was necessary that we travel as light as possible. It is time that we were leaving, for the last of the food that he brought from the rear is exhausted....

“The morning has come. And now we are about to turn our backs upon this strange place of suffering and mystery, its suffering endured, its mystery unsolved. And without shame do I say that I would rather walk out thus, and face the perils that lie ahead, with this man as my guide, my protector, my friend, than go forth in all the stateliness and triumph that wealth could afford.

“Farewell, dear, dear little home, my refuge, my cradle, my hope. I will come back, and——

“He is calling me at the door. I must kiss this table, these chairs, that bed, the walls. But it is with Him that I go.” Thus closed the lady’s journal.