“What a silly way to write! This isn’t a love letter at all. I told you it wasn’t. But I had a _horrid_ dream last night and it has given me the shivers all day. I think some of its hagorousness has crept into my pen. No, I won’t write it. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. And then you can put your darling strong arms around me and laugh at me for letting myself get frightened by a silly dream. I wish this was a love letter. I never wrote one till this past week. So I don’t know how to say what I want to; to say all the wonderful things that are in my heart. But I _love_ you, my own. And the whole world centres just around _you_. It always has. But now that you _know_ it does, I feel so happy it frightens me. We’re going to be together forever and ever and ever--and ever,--and _then_ some more. _Aren’t_ we? _Say_ so! “Say so, beloved, and hold me very tight in your arms, very near to your heart when you say it. For to-day I’m foolish enough to want to be comforted a little bit. I wish I hadn’t had that dream. It was all nonsense, _wasn’t_ it? Dreams _never_ come true. So I won’t worry one minute longer. Only,--I wish I was with you, my strong, splendid old sweetheart. The only dream that can possibly come to pass is the glorious one we dreamed that night up on the mountain with the sea of mist all around us and God’s stars overhead. And we will never wake from it. “The gentle, friendly northland summer is over now and the frost lies thick nearly every morning. It is time to go. “Oh, my darling, I am coming home to you. _Home!_ We must never be away from each other again. Not for a single day;--so long as we live.” CHAPTER XXIII “THE STRONG ARM OF CHRIST” The sky was gray with morning as Conover stumbled into a sitting room of the little Magdeburg Hotel. Two men turned toward him. One of them, his arm in a sling--a great plaster patch on his forehead and dried blood caking his face,--hurried forward. Caleb looked twice before he recognized Jack Hawarden. “Thank Heaven you’re here!” exclaimed the lad. “She--” “She’s alive yet?” croaked the Fighter. “Yes, yes! In there,” pointing to a closed door. “Wait!” as Caleb reached the door at a bound. “Dr. Bond is dressing some of her hurts again. He’ll be through in a minute. Then I’ll take you in. Mr. Conover, this is the Reverend Mr. Grant. He has been very, very kind. He helped us lift the wreckage from her, and--” “Is she goin’ to get well?” demanded Caleb, wheeling about on the clergyman. “All is being done that mortal skill can do,” answered Mr. Grant with gentle evasion, “The local physician--”