trampled in the garden of her soul. As he stood in the door of his cabin, the place seemed to breathe of her presence. She had made a veritable bower of it for his return. Every sweet thing she had gathered for him, as if, out of her love and her sorrow, she had meant to bring to him an especial blessing.

A shallow basin filled with wild forget-me-nots stood on the shelf before his mother’s picture. Ferns and vines fell over the stone mantle, and in earthen jars of mountain ware the early rhododendron, with its delicate, pearly pink blossoms, filled the dark corners. Masses of the plumed white ash shook feathery tassels along the walls, making the air sweet with their fragrance. Ah, how clean and fresh everything was! All his disorder was set to rights, and fresh linen was on his bed in his canvas room.