She caught the water in the flask, rinsing it quickly to get the last of the brandy, and poured it into the cup. The slight stimulant and the brief halt helped him to gather himself once more. They moved on around the bend. Somewhere, down the wet, sunlit trail, a meadow lark started a soft, deep-throated prelude; and was it not "All things—all things—come round to him—to him—who will but wait." Alice laid her hand on the rein; the horse stopped. And there below them, at the foot of the knoll, its shadowy eaves and roomy balcony clear against that background of old trees, rose the cabin of his dreams. The trail narrowed and dipped from the curve, skirting a spur of rock, and she stepped on this ledge to give the horse room. It brought her nearer Forrest’s level, and she waited, her hand still on the bridle, watching his face. She saw his surprised glance linger on the cottage, and move slowly to the clump of cedars she had saved from the slashing to shade the western wall, and on towards the meadow, seeking between the group of alders and the other of maples, now turned scarlet, the old gnarled trunk with chairlike arms. That was her crowning hour, the thought of which had buoyed her through days of weariness and made toil possible. "Paul," she said at last, and her voice vibrated its contralto note, "you understand. I did it—I filed on the homestead—to hold it—_for you_." He looked down into her lifted face, believing yet not believing. "You—did it, to hold it—for me?" "At first," she went on hurriedly, "I planned it in payment for the use of Colonel. I meant to commute it, when you were ready to take it, or else relinquish my right. But I knew you would oppose me, Paul; I dared not tell you. And, afterwards, I learned to love it. You don’t know how I love it. It would be hard to give it up." "I understand," he answered slowly. "But don’t let it trouble you. I have the mining claim; that’s enough. Hold your homestead, Alice. It’s yours; you worked—how you must have worked—for it. The Judge—will find it a great country place." "Dear Uncle Silas. It shall always be his resting place. You have seen him, haven’t you, Paul? He has told you that—he knows?" Forrest did not answer. His face was very white. She believed his strength, once more, was going, and she moved closer, raising herself a-tiptoe on the rock, to brace her shoulder again to his weight. "Oh," she said, "we shouldn’t have stopped here; we should have hurried straight down." "Why, I’m all right." He leaned a little in spite of himself, and the arm on her shoulder shook. "Yes, I’m all right. But see here—see here—what does the Judge—know?" She waited a moment, and the lark, nearer now, repeated his prelude, "All things—all things—-come round to him—to him—who will but wait." Then she answered, almost in a whisper, with her lashes fallen and a soft brightness in her face, "That I—love you—Paul."