symmetrical black eyebrows and long, dark lashes, suggested at a
glance the good quality of her breeding. The aquiline nose was pinched
by suffering, the finely curving lips were now bloodless and drawn
tight from time to time, as though to repress the cry of pain; these
marks of suffering could not rob her countenance of its refinement.
Her breathing was shallow; at times it seemed irregular; and wan,
almost inert, the fragile figure seemed nearing the eternal parting
with its soul. The silence of the sick-room was fearsomely ominous.

Three weeks before, Ruth, her mother, and ever-apprehensive Aunt
Melissa had come from the heat of coastal Georgia to the invigorating
coolness of the Southern Appalachians. They had come to Point View
several weeks later than usual this year, as spring was tardy and the
hot days at home had been few. Ruth had been most miserable for weeks
before they left home, but had stood the trip well, and Judge Rivers
had received an encouraging, indeed a hopeful report from the invalid.
But a few days later a letter telling of another of Ruth's attacks was
followed immediately by an urgent, distressed telegram which caused
him to adjourn court and hasten to his family.

For many years Dr. Harkins had driven through the mountains eight
starving months, serving and saving the poorly housed and often
destitute mountaineers. The tourist flood from the burning, summer
lowlands to the mountains' refreshment gave him his living. Dr.
Harkins was as truly a missionary as though he were on the pay-roll of
a denominational society. He had always helped, or the mountains had
helped, or something had helped Ruth before, but this time nothing
helped. The doctor had already called a neighboring physician; they
were both perplexed, and each feared to say the word which, in their
minds, spelled her doom. For nearly three days Ruth had been