Allston had fallen. The curtain had been rung down. For all he knew it was final. And yet in the course of time the curtain began to rise again. Light--the emblem of life--filtered through his eyes and made itself a conscious fact in his half-paralyzed brain. That was all he was aware of at first--just light; a pale, cold light like that of dawn. It was quite meaningless and without warmth. It roused no emotions in him; little interest. It just was; nothing more. Yet because it was, it indicated life. It stood for continuation instead of the end. It meant another day. It meant being. It meant-- Something more was trying to get through to that numbed brain of his. Another sense was fluttering to life--sound. He heard a far-off noise. Then, it seemed close to his ear. It was whispering a familiar name. It was his name. “Ned,” he heard. And then once more, “Ned.” It roused him to effort. He tried to move his arm. Quickly following this, he began to feel; something warm was resting on his forehead smoothing back his hair. Something still warmer brushed his cold lips. Then, like a film unfolding its secrets in a dark room, his mind began to clear. Objects became more concrete. They stood for something. This was a woman bending over him. Still somewhat hazy he tried to raise his head. As he did so he heard a sharp cry. The ugly wound stood revealed. “Ned,” came the trembling voice. “Lie still. I--I must get water.” Then he knew. That was Wilmer Howe. That was Wilmer Howe. They were in the cove where he had stopped to fish for trout. No, there was something wrong about that. This was a clearing. He rose to one elbow. His hair and cheek felt sticky, and he put up his hand. He brought it back crimsoned. He saw the shack beyond and the whole story flashed before him. His head sank to the ground. He seemed to be weak. Bud had got him when he started to run from the door. But how happened it that Wilmer had taken the place of Roxie? This was strange--very strange. It was not easy to think about anything very long at a time. He heard footsteps running towards him. Again he tried to sit up, but before he could do that Wilmer was by his side. She was holding a tin dipper to his lips. He drank thirstily. It was very refreshing--this clear, ice-cold spring water. She poured a little into the palm of her hand and bathed his forehead and face. He struggled again to sit up and, with her help, succeeded. He was facing the log shack. His hand went back to his pocket. “Where--where’s my gun?” he demanded. Wilmer had thought of themselves as alone. Both Bud and Roxie had been eliminated from her thoughts. Now she raised her eyes and glanced about. Allston caught sight of his automatic on the ground a few feet away. He tried to reach it and failed. Following his outstretched arm, she saw it too, and, picking it up gingerly, handed it to him. The feel of it in his fingers roused him to action in spite of his weakness. He squinted towards the shack.