Hugh stepped in and stood to push the boat out from the shore. His eyes never left hers. It was a deep, long look of which her soul drank, quenching its thirst. Very slowly the boat moved; then it turned. A hand seemed to grip it’s prow. There was a mighty, confused roaring in their ears; the bank seemed to be snatched back from them. The sunlight, shone into Hugh’s face. Suddenly he caught at his oar. “The river is not so high,” he shouted; “the flood’s going down.” He looked away from her and back. “We have--just a chance. We’ll leave it to the river. It may be the end of you and me--or, Bella, it may be the beginning.” He steadied the boat with all his skill. It was drawn with frightful swiftness down the swollen stream. * * * * * Before noon Sylvie and Pete moved slowly across the open space and went back along their forest trail. They walked like lovers, and Sylvie’s arm helped to support him. Just before he stepped in among the trees he turned for a long, desolate, backward look. Now the hoop of green, once white as paper under the noon sun, and the level, circular rim of the forest are empty and silent except for the rattling of the river and the moving of the pines against the fixed, grave stars. The human tragedy--or was it comedy?--has burnt itself out like the embers of a camp-fire that will never again be kindled in that lonely spot. THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Snow-Blind, by Katharine Newlin Burt