fiercely, and his great shoulders shook with the agony that was eating
at his soul.

"Yes, it is the pretty music, my Melisse," he murmured softly, choking
back his sobs. "It is the pretty music in the skies."

The hand pressed more tightly against his face.

"It's not the music in the skies, John. It is real--REAL music that I
hear--"

"It's the sky music, my sweet Melisse! Shall I open the door so that
we can hear it better?"

The hand slipped from his cheek. Cummins lifted his head, slowly
straightening his great shoulders as he looked down upon the white
face, from which even the flush of fever was disappearing, as he had
seen the pale glow of the northern sun fade before a thickening snow.
He stretched his long, gaunt arms straight up to the low roof of the
cabin, and for the first time in his life he prayed--prayed to the God
who had made for him this world of snow and ice and endless forest
very near to the dome of the earth, who had given him this woman, and
who was now taking her from him.

When he looked again at the woman, her eyes were open, and there
glowed in them still the feeble fire of a great love. Her lips, too,
pleaded with him in their old, sweet way, which always meant that he
was to kiss them, and stroke her hair, and tell her again that she was
the most beautiful thing in the whole world.