little room in the log house, there was, like a deep undercurrent in the
flow of his troubled thought, his love for Betty Jo.

It is little wonder that, to Brian Kent, that night, the voices of the
river were filled with fearful doubt and sullen, dreadful threatenings.

And what of the woman who watched the tiny spot of light that marked
the window of the room where the re-created Brian Kent kept his lonely
vigil? Did she, too, hear the voices of the river? Did she feel the
presence of that stream which poured its dark flood so mysteriously
through the night between herself and the man yonder?

Away back, somewhere in the past, the currents of their lives in the
onward flow of the river had drawn together. For a period of time, their
life-currents had mingled, and, with the stream, had swept onward as
one. Other influences--swirls and eddies and counter-currents of other
lives--had touched and intermingled until the current that was the man
and the current that was the woman had drawn apart. For months, they
had not touched; and, now, they were drawing nearer to each other again.
Would they touch? Would they again mingle and become one? What was this
mysterious, unseen, unknown, but always-felt, power of the river that
sets the ways of its countless currents as it sweeps ever onward in its
unceasing flow?

The door of her room opened. Harry Green entered as one assured of a
welcome. The woman at the window turned her head, but did not move.
Going to her, the man, with an endearing word, offered a caress; but she
put him aside. "Please, Harry,--please let me be alone to-night?"

"Why, Martha, dear! What is wrong?" he protested, again attempting to