Within the space of ten short days Cecil Stark was turned from supreme indifference concerning life or death to the contrary emotion. Existence for him had become endowed with a lively charm, and if Grace Malherb\'s heart fluttered in secret, the sailor\'s also now beat less steadily, and played him pranks at her approach. He found in the maiden all that love asks, and more by much than ever he had seen in any other woman. Here did beauty, spirit, force of soul, music of voice and graciousness of mien all merge in one lovely girl; and Stark very rightly and properly went down like a man before the irresistible. Now greedily he counted the hours and prayed that the snow might endure. He hated the red sun that daily crept above Cater\'s Beam and sank where Prince Town lay, for it touched the drifts and changed their character. The expanses of white glittered and settled down, while from their bowels snow-water eternally trickled until the rivers roared, and black, boiling streams, all splashed with yellow spume, thundered from each great hill. Now sunlit streaks and spots of stone, heath and bog broke the huge whiteness of the mountains, and Stark\'s glimpse of Paradise was nearly over. Each morning at the breakfast-hour he waited in fear for Maurice Malherb to pronounce sentence of departure; each day he breathed again to find a few hours were still left to him.

Grace Malherb proved such a listener as sailors love. She had not imbibed many of her father\'s prejudices, and was too full of the delight of life on one side, its personal problems and puzzles on the other, to concern herself with politics or abstract ideas touching the welfare of nations. Cecil Stark did what Grace\'s father was powerless to do, and wakened in her an active interest concerning war. She listened attentively while he rose to the occasion and, inspired by her advertance, painted with all an earnest lad\'s enthusiasm the cause for which he fought. She watched from under lowered lids, and while he fancied that her heart must throb to the cannon\'s roar or the crash of falling spars, she was either comparing his powerful face with the more delicate and more classic features of her lover, or contrasting the fire of the fighting man with the dreamy disposition of John Lee. But John Lee would presently be a fighting man also.

Little basenesses crept into the soul of poor Grace under this ordeal. By night she wept bitterly at herself and marvelled to behold her own meanness. She found herself secretly thankful that Cecil Stark knew nothing of her engagement; then, heartily ashamed, she probed this instinct, and imagined that it must be caused by the American\'s superiority of position and of rank. In reality she erred and the truth was far different; but this the girl had not as yet discovered. Her misery was extreme, and she blamed herself bitterly when she reflected how much of her thoughts the American prisoner already owned. Indeed, all other concerns swept headlong into a remote, unimportant past. And it was so with the man; for his first love now lighted life with wild, unrestful glory. Of the maiden\'s heart, indeed, he knew nothing, but, impelled to do so by a vague hope as to the future, he had made a clean breast of his own affairs and dwelt egotistically upon them. Not seldom Mr. Peter Norcot\'s former assertion clouded those moments in which Stark had sense to pause and reflect, yet the other\'s name was never mentioned by Grace, and he began presently to hope that the wish was father to Peter\'s thought and declaration. There seemed no evidence that Miss Malherb\'s future was already determined.

The sailor\'s ambitions Grace admired with enthusiasm; his splendid future, his prospective flocks and herds, lands and homesteads beside the Champlain, attracted her less keenly. But more topics than one made the girl\'s eyes sparkle as he spoke of them.

"You are such a Diana that you\'d love Vermont," Cecil once said. "Our folks, however, hunt for business rather than sport. We had moose, deer, bears, foxes and wolves once, and peltry was the great business of the trappers and pioneers. Even yet our furs fetch near two thousand pounds every year; but the beasts are being killed faster than Nature can restore them. They will soon vanish."

"We had wolves here, too. I think the last was killed in Tudor times. \'Twas an obligation under the old local laws that the folk should slay them. Now we have little but foxes; and a good, red Moor fox is the best in England."

"I never hunted, though I can ride sailor-fashion. Now I should like to see you in the saddle, Mistress Grace!"

"Of course you hunt in the English way, if you have respectable hound-fearing foxes?" she asked, ignoring his desire concerning herself.

"Yes; many amongst us stick stoutly to New England ways, which, indeed, are the same as old England ways for that matter. But in states of society such as ours, the conditions make for change. We are deeply interested in education and enterprise; we marry early; we advocate equality of rights, because that is natural where all men have the same interests. But equality of power we never pretend to. The idea is nonsensical; Nature herself shows that. Men are unequal in power and capacity—so are all other animals. We are, I think, both economical and hospitable. We resent control of religion, and hold liberty of thought in that matter vital. We have an elastic mind in affairs of government, and don\'t attempt to bind posterity to our forms in your English fashion. In England men are full of opinions and empty of information. We let opinions go hang and never tire of learning. We keep fluid; we respect human life very much. Instead of a hundred and sixty capital crimes, as there are in Great Britain, we have but nine sins in Vermont for which a man is punished by death. We marry early——"

"You said that before."

"Did I? Well—it\'s interesting."

"So it is."

"But I bore you to distraction—I am sure that I must do so, Miss Malherb."

"Very far from it, Mr. Stark. You interest one and all of us. It is marvellous to me how you tell each amongst us the sort of things most likely to attract him, or her. You have made every man your friend; and every woman too."

She dimly guessed his meaning when he dwelt so much upon himself, and told of his honoured family, and of his future as the survivor of the race.

Throughout the severe weather it was impossible for John Lee to see more than a passing glimpse of his lady. The hardship of this specially touched Grace\'s heart, and not seldom, after intimate chatter with the American, she purposely sought disconsolate John that she might cheer his loneliness and longing. But in the vital matter of the guest, young Lee suffered less than would have been supposed. Jealousy was no part of his nature. He rejoiced heartily that Grace should have company so interesting during the tedious days after the storm. In common with Beer, Woodman and the rest, John appreciated Cecil Stark, and found his own sentiments echo the sailor\'s on many subjects. The labourers often discussed their visitor, admired the frank, friendly spirit in which he came amongst them at their work, and regretted the fact that he must soon return to prison.

Once in a morning hour Grace played her piano to the guest, and upon opening a music-book, the ghost of a sprig of white heather, now turned brown, tumbled out of it. Mr. Peter Norcot had presented this trophy, and placed it to mark a song of Herrick\'s, with Purcell\'s accompaniment.

Now Stark noted the flower.

"You like it not, I see," he said, for memory suddenly clouded the singer\'s eyes.

"Dead heath," she answered; "and for me I vow that it never lived. A gentleman placed it there because the song pleased him."

"I\'d give the world to know who \'twas, Miss Malherb."

"You shall hear for nothing. There is no secret. The name will not be new to you, I think; Mr. Peter Norcot."

Stark\'s face fell, and the recollection of many things crowded down bleakly upon him.

"He\'s a good man—a great-hearted, generous spirit," he declared.

Grace did not answer.

"I have been blind lately," he continued. "My wits went wandering in the blizzard and have never returned. It has pleased me to forget Mr. Norcot too long. What might have been, Miss Malherb! He won parole for us out of his own pure goodness and love of humanity. But meantime we had tried to escape and failed. A mad world! And but for that Jonathan Miller might still be li............