There's a little lake I know,
And a boat you used to row
To the shore beyond that's quiet--will you come back home?

Will you come back, darlin'? Never heed the pain and blightin',
Never trouble that you're wounded, that you bear the scars of
fightin';
Here's the luck o' Heaven to you,
Here's the hand of love will brew you
The cup of peace--ah, darlin', will you come back home?"

She stood listening for a few moments, and, under the spell of the fresh,
young voice, the homely, heart-searching words, and the intimate
sweetness of the woods, the despairing apathy lifted slowly away. She
started forwards again with a new understanding, her footsteps quickened.
She would go to Father Bourassa. He would understand. She would tell
him all. He would help her to do what now she knew she must do, ask
Leonard Varley to save her husband's life--Leonard Varley to save her
husband's life!

When she stepped upon the veranda of the priest's house, she did not know
that Varley was inside. She had no time to think. She was ushered into
the room where he was, with the confusing fact of his presence fresh upon
her. She had had but a word or two with the priest, but enough for him
to know what she meant to do, and that it must be done at once.

Varley advanced to meet her. She shuddered inwardly to think what a
difference there was between the fallen creature she had left behind in
the hospital and this tall, dark, self-contained man, whose name was
familiar in the surgeries of Europe, who had climbed from being the son