There came to them no word from Cummins now.
He stood for a moment before his lighted door, and then went back, and
the word passed softly from one to another that the most beautiful
thing in the world was still living her sweet life in that little
cabin at the end of the clearing.
"You hear the music in the skies--now, my Melisse?" whispered the man,
kneeling beside her again. "It is very pretty to-night!"
"It was not that," repeated the woman.
She attempted to stroke his face, but Cummins saw nothing of the
effort, for the hand lay all but motionless. He saw nothing of the
fading softness that glowed in the big, loving eyes, for his own eyes
were blinded by a hot film. And the woman saw nothing of the hot film,
so torture was saved them both. But suddenly the woman quivered, and
Cummins heard a thrilling sound.
"It is the music!" she panted. "John, John, it is--the music--of--my--
people!"
The man straightened himself, his face turned to the open door. He
heard it now! Was it the blessed angels coming for his Melisse? He
rose, a sobbing note in his throat, and went, his arms stretched out,
to meet them. He had never heard a sound like that--never in all his
life in this endless wilderness.
He went from the door out into the night, and, step by step, through
the snow toward the black edge of the spruce forest.
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