The rain struck about by the wind, which had risen again, lashed against
the leaves of the trees, and the wet, swaying boughs struck against his
face as he started on again; but the storm and his own footsteps were the
only sounds he could hear.

It was growing rapidly colder, and he felt more than once in his pocket
to make sure that the little flask of brandy he had brought with him was
still safe, and tried to fasten his drenched coat more tightly about him.
His teeth chattered, and he shivered; but this, he realized, was more
with nervousness than with chill.

"If I'm cold, what must she be, in that linen habit? And she's so little
and frail--" He pulled himself together. "I must stop worrying like
this--of course, I'll find her,--alive and unharmed. Some things are too
dreadful--they just can't happen. I've got to have a chance to beg her
forgiveness for all I've said and done and thought; I've got to have
something to give me courage to start all over again, and make a man of
myself yet--to cleanse myself of ingratitude--and bitterness--and evil
passions. Sylvia--Sylvia--Sylvia!"

It seemed as if he had called it a thousand times; suddenly he stopped
short, listening, his heart beating like a hammer, then standing still in
his breast. It couldn't be--but, oh, it was, it was--

"Austin! Is that you?"

"Yes, yes, yes, where are you?"

"I don't know, I'm sure--what a question!" And instantly a feeling