thrill to her heart that she caught her breath with a painful kind of
joy. The hammer dropped upon the anvil, and, in a moment, she stood in
the doorway of his room.

"Francis, Francis," she responded in a low whisper. He started up from
his couch of skins. "Samantha, my wife!" he cried, in a strong proud
voice.

She dropped beside him and caught his head, like a mother, to her
shoulder, and set her warm lips on his forehead and hair with a kind of
hunger; and then he drew her face down and kissed her on the lips. Tears
hung at her eyes, and presently dropped on her cheeks, a sob shook her,
and then she was still, her hands grasping his shoulders.

"Have I been ill?" he asked.

"You have been very ill, Francis."

"Has it been long?"

Her fingers passed tenderly through his grizzled hair. "Too long, too
long, my husband," she replied.

"Is it summer now?"

"Yes, Francis, it is summer."

"Was it in the spring, Samantha?--Yes, I think it was in the spring," he
added, musing.