There was
the same elusive movement of the portrait over the volume of warm
air that rose from the floor. In this room he seemed to breathe
again the presence of a warm spirit of life, as he had felt it on
the first night--a spirit that seemed to him to be a part of
Jeanne herself, and he thought of the last words of the wife and
mother--of her promise to remain always near those whom she loved,
to regain after death the companionship which she could never hope
for in life. And then there came to him a thought of the vast and
wonderful mystery of death, and he wondered if it was her spirit
that had been with him more than one lonely night, when his camp-
fire was low; if it was her presence that had filled him with
transcendent dreams of hope and love, coming to him that night
beside the rock at Churchill, and leading him at last to Jeanne,
for whom she had given up her life. He heard again the rising of
the wind outside and the beating of the storm against the window,
and he went softly to see if his vision could penetrate into the
white, twisting gloom beyond the glass. For many minutes he stood,
seeing nothing. And then he heard a sound, and turned to see
Jeanne and her father standing in the door.
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