she never forgot that night. when the door of mother cary's house closed behind her, and she faced the wind and blinding rain, she awoke. that was the way she always thought of it—as an awakening.

the allen house lay beyond father cary's pasture; she knew the way by day—down through the garden, then through the woods to the rock-ribbed clearing where the cattle were, then up, into woods again; but in the dark it was for her but a wild, instinctive rush, a stumbling over rock-broken ground, a splashing through pools of water; on through the darkness, on from one darkness to another, turning from time to time to look back at mother cary's light as a guide to direction. yet on she flew, impelled by a conquering fear that drove out all lesser fears, over rough places, through woods, up the ascent of hills, running as much of the way as she could, bending against the wind that seemed trying to force her back, praying that she might find the way, praying that she might be in time.

at last, though she could never tell how she had come to it, a light gleamed faintly through the dark and the rain. at last—the allen house! she tumbled to the door, paused a moment for breath, and opened it.

it was the usual one-room cabin of the mountaineer; there were strange, shelf-like beds against the farthest wall, and in a corner a wooden bedstead. it was from there that john ogilvie looked up as she opened the door.

"quick! that largest bottle—saturate something—anything—and hold it over her face!"

she worked with him, obeying blindly, while he struggled through the night for a woman's life, while the poor hungry baby awoke at intervals to wail its complaint from the other bed, while the storm shook the house and the rain swept down unceasingly. once he bade her get more light. there were no more lamps; she knelt down on the hearth to blow into the flame the scraps she had gathered up in her bare hands from the wood-box; those lighted, and lacking more, somehow she broke the box itself—a task ordinarily as far beyond her strength as her imagination. it was by the light of that blaze that he finished his work, leaving rosamund free to do what she could for the baby.

but, when at last there was time for speech, neither found anything to say. he remembered too well the brutal words he had thrown at her a few hours before; he could not but fear that her silence meant that she, too, was recalling them. he saw her there beside the hearth, the baby on her knees; but he saw her also in the doorway, her hair wind-blown and wet, and her eyes wide with fear and dread, determination and hope. he could have grovelled at her feet, had not her silence held him back; but speak he could not; great emotion was always to leave him inarticulate.

but as for rosamund, she was unaware of his silence or her own. she was like a woman after her travail, who is content to lie in silence, because the purpose of the world has been revealed to her. life—that was it—to further life, to prolong it, to minister to it! how futile was all else! how valueless were the things she had been taught to value most! her shielded ignorance, her—her refinement—of what use were they, when they could not face such an emergency as last night's? her money, that could have bought a hospital—what had it bought last night, when only the service of her own two hands could help to save a woman's life? the pursuits of her kind—she smiled, remembering ogilvie's orderly haste, as unerringly he cut, and tied and sewed, while she as unfalteringly watched him, even assisted. no! for her there was nothing to say; she knew now what life was for. it was not the empty, useless existence she had known. it had a deeper meaning, a purpose worthier its maker. it was wonderful beyond words. she had nothing to say.

neither of them was aware that the dawn had come, until someone knocked on the door. then ogilvie opened it to father cary, and to the grayness of a still driving rain.

the stalwart old man stepped inside and looked about the cabin, at the quietly breathing woman on the bed, at ogilvie, at rosamund beside the fire trying to persuade the baby to take something warm from a spoon.

"so!" he said. "and where's jim allen?"

ogilvie threw up both his hands, hopelessly. "where he always is—back in the woods at one of the stills, dead drunk, like as not."

"more'n likely," father cary acquiesced. then, nodding towards the bed, he asked, "what's the matter with her?"

"nothing now. she would have been dead, though, if i had operated half an hour later. lord knows how long she's been lying there. the baby's nearly dead, too—half-starved and half-poisoned by his mother's illness."

"how'd you happen to come?" the old man asked.

"the oldest boy came for me—all the way over to the summit, and he's not six. he's at my house in bed now."

then father cary crossed the room, and stood beside rosamund, looking down at her. she met his look with a quiet smile.

"new work for you, ain't it?" he asked. "ma cary'll be real proud o' ye!"

and answering the question in her eyes, he went on, "oh, she'll be home again in time to get dinner. wasn't nothin' the matter with the baby; but nancy's that nervous, an' so's ma cary." he chuckled. "i reckon it takes some experience and a right smart o' ca'm to be a real successful granny."

the doctor was becoming impatient. "will you stay here with miss randall, cary? i must get someone to come; she"—nodding towards the bed—"will need watching until we can find allen."

so for an hour or so pa cary sat opposite rosamund or busied himself preparing for breakfast the little food to be found in the house. the other children awoke, tumbling down backwards from the high box-bed, looking across at their mother with scared faces, and distrustfully at rosamund.

at last ogilvie returned, bringing grace tobet with him, and rosamund was free to go home with father cary.

but there must first be the inevitable moment when she and ogilvie should stand face to face. it happened simply enough. grace had taken rosamund's place beside the fire, replenished now through father cary's efforts in the outer shed; the old man had gone out for a last armful of wood, and rosamund was about to take down her coat from its nail on the door.

then, somehow, ogilvie was standing before her. he looked at her with trembling lips; he did not dare to trust himself to speak. he could only hold out his hands.

she turned her tired face up to him, looking, searchingly, it seemed, into his eyes. then, smiling, she laid her hands for the breath of a moment in his, and with a little gasp reached for her coat and ran out to join father cary.

she was glad that eleanor's departure, and the rain, kept them apart for a few days after that. she dreaded the restraint that she thought they both must feel when they should meet; but, when the meeting came at last, there was no embarrassment at all.

father cary had left her at the summit and she meant to walk back to the house on the mountain, to make the most of the first clear day after the rain. there was a little brown house, set on the brow of the hill overlooking the valley, almost opposite the mountain whence mother cary's light shone every night. rosamund had often noticed the little place, and to-day, at the store, she had heard the men talking about it. the man who owned it had come from the city a year or so before, with his wife, to be near doctor ogilvie. they were young, and the young do not see very far ahead. it had seemed to them in their distress that they would have to stay there forever; they had done many things to the little house, and put into it many of the comforts they had been used to. now the man was well, and they were going back to the city.

"want to sell out," the postmaster had told her. "humph! wouldn't mind sellin' out myself! like to know who's going to buy prop'ty up here, this time o' year!"

so, as she approached the little house on her way home, rosamund was busily thinking about it. perhaps, subconsciously, the idea had been a long time growing in her mind; but when she turned the last bend in the road that hid the house from her view, a plan seemed to burst upon her with all the novelty of a revelation. she stood still, looking first at the house, then across the valley towards the place which had sheltered her all summer. she was not aware that a vehicle drawn by a familiar white horse was just turning out of a wood-road into the highway, scarcely ten yards behind her.

but ogilvie, in the sudden gladness of thus unexpectedly coming upon her, called out.

"oh, good luck! let me give you a lift, won't you?"

the embarrassment that she had been dreading was not there! they were as simply glad to see each other as two children; laughing, she took the place beside him in the buggy.

he had never looked more cheerful. "so i caught you staring into the marvens' windows!" he accused her.

she laughed again. "i am tempted to buy that little house," she told him.

"why don't you?" he asked, lightly. "and go there to live, and take timmy and yetta with you!" he smiled down at her, indulgently, as at the fancies of a child.

"that was just precisely what i was thinking of doing," she replied. "we could be perfectly comfortable there during the winter. i don't want to go back to town one bit!"

"so you could," he agreed, still in his bantering tone. "and i wouldn't stop with tim and yetta. i'd take in a few more. you might borrow some little allens, or get someone to lend you an orphan asylum."

rosamund put her head back and laughed aloud, merrily. "but i am perfectly in earnest!" she cried; and was, from that moment.

but if the doctor refused to take the idea seriously, it was quite otherwise with mother cary. when rosamund disclosed to her the half-formed plan—she had come to discuss nearly everything with that fount of human wisdom—the dear soul did not seem surprised at all, but at once made a thoroughly feminine mental leap into the very middle of arrangements.

"why, of course, dearie, it will be just splendid! and you won't need so very many furnishin's. there's some cheers up in our loft you might take, and you can have things up from the city. yetta's learned a good deal this summer. i can bake for you for a while, till the child gets more used to the work, and i reckon you can manage the rest of it betwixt you."

"do you suppose," rosamund asked, "that grace tobet would come, too?"

mother cary sat down in her little low rocking chair, and laid her crutch on the brick floor of the front walk, always a sign of her settling down for a real talk. things had been going worse and worse with the tobets; rosamund and yetta went down almost daily, but beyond their friendly visits there seemed little they could do. the government's suspicions were centering on joe, the big, born leader of rough elements, and on his band of four or five other men, who would follow him to death or worse. jim allen was one; but now, repentant and sobered by the baby's death, he was at home nursing his wife. grace had sped through the woods in the night to warn joe and his followers more than once; yet even to ogilvie she denied any knowledge of joe's business.

"it's squirrels he's after," she said, "and sometimes drink; all this talk of moonshine's jest foolishness. i'd know it ef 'twas so. it ain't so!"

"well, mrs. tobet," the doctor replied, "your squirrel stew would not be to my liking! better keep the lid on the pot while it's cooking!"

he saw too many evidences of the moonshine's work to believe her; but he had seen joe tobet come home, and he honored grace, too familiar with human nature to marvel at her faithfulness. mother cary alone knew all that grace tobet knew; all secrets were safe in her kind old heart, and even from pap she hid this one, for father cary was not one of those who hold councils of compromise with the evil one. therefore, when rosamund suggested grace tobet, mother cary sat down to think it out.

after a few minutes' silent pondering, she said, "honey, i've never been one to advise the partin' of husband and wife! howsomever, if there's any good left in joe tobet, it may be the surest way o' bringin' him back to straight ways o' livin', ef we can coax grace to leave him for a while."

"i'm afraid i can't give a thought to joe's salvation," rosamund declared. "but grace—oh, she's too fine to be left there! i should like to give her one winter of comfort!"

"well, you haven't got a holt of her yet," mother cary reminded her, "an' it wouldn't be but half comfort for her, the outside half, anyways, away from her man. but i can't see what anybody could do better than to keep little tim and yetta up here out o' harm's way, and maybe save grace tobet an' joe, too. land's sake, dearie, you must be quite well off!"

it seemed to come to mother cary suddenly, and was the first spark of curiosity rosamund had ever known her to show. until now her wisdom had seemed all-embracing; but that a young woman, that rosamund, who had lived so quietly in her house all summer, could carry out a suddenly formed plan of buying a house and sheltering three people—this was evidently quite outside of her experience. she looked up with unwonted surprise in her face. rosamund bent and kissed the wrinkled pink cheek.

"dear, dear mother cary," she said, "i am so well off that i could probably buy every house at the summit, and build as many more! i am so well off that i have never in all my life, until this summer, had a chance to find out how well off i am! i am so well off that i did not know how poor i have been, nor how much people can need the wretched mere money, nor how very, very little it can really do! i have only begun to find out what life is made of, and so i'm not well off at all!"

tears came into her eyes as she spoke, and she turned her head away; but mother cary's hand was stretched towards her, instantly. presently she said, in the low tone which was the tenderest and sweetest of all:

"dearie child, when the young folks come an' tell me things like you're tellin' me now, i reckon there ain't anybody in the world as well off as me! an' i'll tell you jest what it is makes you do it—it's because i'm so happy! an' i'll tell you jest what makes me so happy. i let pap take keer o' me, an' i try to take keer o' him an' jest as many other folks as i can! that's the whole of it!" after a pause she added, "you're goin' to do jest the same as me, both in keering for someone, an' in bein' took keer of!"

rosamund's eyes opened wide; she paled a little and pressed her hand against her trembling lips. "i don't know," she whispered. "i'm afraid! oh, i'm afraid!"

mother cary patted the hand she held, and knew too much to speak. their thoughts, in the silence, wandered far; came back and dwelt upon the things that were, the things to be; there is no way of knowing whether they went hand in hand, but after a while mother cary said:

"dearie, i wouldn't tell him, if i was you, about—about all you have, the money an'—you know!—i wouldn't tell the doctor yet a while!"

rosamund drew her breath sharply, and her face flamed; she was too startled to answer, but in a moment she left her place on the bench and knelt beside the old woman, hiding her face on the knees where so many had found comfort. mother cary smoothed her hair, and after a while began to talk, almost as if to herself.

"there's a friend o' mine sometimes spends her summers up around here; she's married to a eye doctor—that's how come yetta got sent up here to me. her husband knew doctor ogilvie down in the city. she told me there never was one they thought more of, down there; they said he found out more about nerves than anybody else in the world, and he used to work day and night and in between times, trying to discover more. they said there never was such a one with little child'en; he could almost make 'em over new, seemed like. they said he never cared whether folks could pay him or not for what he did—all he cared for was the curin' of 'em. i can well believe it, too, for many's the time i see him almost starved without knowin' what's the matter with him, and he ain't a mite particler about his clo'es. well, he worked an' he worked; and one day my friend's husband, that was one o' his friends, went into his little room where he kept his bottles and things, and found him layin' on the floor. they thought he surely would die, but praise the lord, that wasn't to be; only, he had to give up his work down in the big horspital. i often think on what that must 'a' been to him. i reckon it must 'a' been worse than it would be for pap to give up a raisin' them white hogs o' his he's so proud of. anyway, he come up here, an' he got well! and now he says he hasn't got time to go back there again—there's too much for him to do up here all the time. so he jest rides around the country with that rosy horse. somebody asked him once why he didn't buy an automobile. he said for one thing he hadn't the money for it; and for another, he needed white rosy to remind him where he was going!"

mother cary stopped to laugh; rosamund raised her head, with an answering smile that was half tears.

"land sakes," mother cary went on, "i do believe if it wasn't for rosy he'd sometimes forget to come home! when they get to one o' the houses where he visits, rosy stops and turns her head around; ef he don't say anything to her, there she stands; but if he tells her he don't have to get out there that day, rosy jogs along to the next place! i'm real fond o' humans, but sometimes i do wish't they all knew as much as the doctor's rosy!"

this time rosamund joined in the laugh. but the old woman had more to tell. "time was when i might 'a' wondered how come he stays on here, him bein' the great doctor he is; but i'm so old now that i know too much to wonder about anything any more! there's folks in this world that never can find any work to do, and there's folks that makes work for themselves, and then again there's folks that are so busy with the work right at hand that they never get time to find out whether they're workin' or not. that's doctor ogilvie's kind. he's so busy workin' up here in the mountings, that he never stops to think about whether he is doing the work he likes best or not; it's just work he has to do, because it's here to be done, and that's all there is to it for him. he works so hard at it, inside his own head, that he forgets most everything else. land, i remember the time he sat up with me all night long, workin' over milly grate's baby that had the membranious croup—dipthery, he called it. come mornin', an' he told milly the baby'd get well, he suddenly went out and sat right down on the doorstep; come to find out, he'd brought two babies into the world the day before and driven twenty-two miles and walked about a dozen—and forgotten to take a bite to eat! another time, somebody sent a little boy over the mounting for him in a hurry; he was at a house where a man had broke his leg, and white rosy was waitin' for him at the gate; but when he heard how bad off the little girl was he'd been sent for, didn't he jest set out and run all the way there, forgettin' that there was such a thing as a wagon to ride in, and white rosy still a waitin'!

"and he boards with the widder speers, where it ain't likely she can make him very comfortable, she bein' well past eighty; but he found out soon after he come up here that she would have to be moved to—the place where nobody likes to go!—she not having any support; so he boards there, an' she doesn't have to leave her home, that her husband built for her when they was married, and where her only son died. you might hunt the world over, honey-bird, without findin' any better man than doctor ogilvie! but, somehow or other, ef i was you, i wouldn't let on to him that i had as much money as you say you have. money's a dreadful stumblin'-block to some people! and you never can tell which way men folks'll jump!"

it had been long since rosamund, trained in self-control as she had been, was so keenly aware of intense embarrassment. her first impulse was to feel affront at mother cary's taking so much for granted in her relations with the doctor; but no one could really be angry with mother cary. she was abashed that the old woman had divined more than she herself had been aware of; and then there arose the doubt that she had so often felt of the doctor's personal interest in herself or her affairs. she yielded to the maiden's inevitable longing for reassurance.

"what makes you think," she whispered, her cheek against mother cary's hand, "what makes you think that he—would be—interested?"

"darlin'!" mother cary cried, "john ogilvie thinks a heap o' you—but he ain't got hardly a suspicion of it yet—any more than you know how much you're goin' to care for him!"

then, with the usual coincidence, the object of their talk came into view, driving white rosy toward the little green gate, yetta on one side of him and tim on the other; they waved to the two in front of the house, but rosamund sprang to her feet and fled indoors.