And when the old man, weary and numb with cold, reached the ladder at
last, helped Waring, lame and irritable, up to the little snow-covered
balcony, and led the way to Silver's room,--when Silver, hearing the
step, raised herself in the arms of the old slave and looked eagerly,
not at him, no, but at the man behind,--did he shrink? He did not; but
led the reluctant, vanquished, defiant, half-angry, half-shamed lover
forward, and gave his darling into the arms that seemed again almost
unwilling, so strong was the old opposing determination that lay bound
by love's bonds.

Silver regained her life as if by magic; not so Waring, who lay
suffering and irritable on the lounge in the long room, while the girl
tended him with a joy that shone out in every word, every tone, every
motion. She saw not his little tyrannies, his exacting demands, his
surly tempers; or rather she saw and loved them as women do when men
lie ill and helpless in their hands. And old Fog sat apart, or came
and went unnoticed; hours of the cold days he wandered through the
forests, visiting the traps mechanically, and making tasks for himself
to fill up the time; hours of the cold evenings, he paced the
snow-covered roof alone. He could not bear to see them, but left the
post to Orange, whose black face shone with joy and satisfaction over
Waring's return.

But after a time fate swung around (as she generally does if impatient
humanity would but give her a chance). Waring's health grew, and so
did his love. He had been like a strong man armed, keeping his palace;
but a stronger than he was come, and, the combat over, he went as far
the other way and adored the very sandals of the conqueror. The gates
were open, and all the floods were out.