Three times during the day he opened his eyes and looked about--wonderingly at first--then as though he understood. As one contented and at peace, he smiled and drifted again into the shadows. But now at times his hand went out toward her with a little movement, as though he were feeling for her in the dark. About midnight he seemed to be sleeping so naturally that they persuaded Helen to rest. At daybreak she was again at her post. Mrs. Ward and Mary had gone, in their turn, for an hour or two of sorely needed rest. Peter Martin was within call downstairs. John, who was watching with his sister, had left the room for the moment and Helen was at the bedside alone. Suddenly through the quiet morning air came the deep-toned call of the Mill whistle. As a soldier awakens at the sound of the morning bugle, Captain Charlie opened his eyes. Instantly she was bending over him. As he looked up into her face she called his name softly. She saw the light of recognition come into his eyes. She saw the glory of his love. "Helen," he said--and again, "Helen." It was as if the death that claimed him had come also for her. For the first time in many months the voice of the Mill was not heard by the Interpreter in his little hut on the cliff. Above the silent buildings the smoke cloud hung like a pall. From his wheel chair the old basket maker watched the long procession moving slowly down the hill. There were no uniforms in that procession--no military band with muffled drums led that solemn march--no regimental colors in honor of the dead. There were no trappings of war--no martial ceremony. And yet, to the Interpreter, Captain Charlie died in the service of his country as truly as if he had been killed on the field of battle. Long after the funeral procession had passed beyond his sight, the Interpreter sat there at the window, motionless, absorbed in thought. Twice silent Billy came to stand beside his chair, but he did not heed. His head was bowed. His great shoulders stooped. His hands were idle. There was a sound of some one knocking at the door. The Interpreter did not hear. The sound was repeated, and this time he raised his head questioningly. Again it came and the old basket maker called, "Come in." The door opened. Jim McIver entered. CHAPTER XXVII JAKE VODELL'S MISTAKE Since that night of the tragedy McIver had struggled to grasp the hidden meaning of the strange series of incidents. But the more he tried to understand, the more he was confused and troubled. Nor had he been able, strong-willed as he was, to shake off the feeling that he was in the midst of unseen forces--that about him mysterious influences were moving steadily to some fixed and certain end.