'Good God!' cried Waring.
A boat was coming after them, a little skiff they both knew, and in it
paddling, in her white dress, sat Silver, her fur mantle at her feet
where it had fallen unnoticed. They sprang to meet her knee-deep in
the icy water; but Waring was first, and lifted her slight form in his
seems.
'I have found you, Jarvis,' she murmured, laying her head down upon
his shoulder; then the eyes closed, and the hand she had tried to
clasp around his neck fell lifeless. Close to the fire, wrapped in
furs, Waring held her in his arms, while the old man bent over her,
chafing her hands and little icy feet, and calling her name in an
agony.
'Let her but come back to life, and I will say not one word, more,' he
cried with tears. 'Who am I that I should torture her? You shall go
back with us, and I will trust it all to God,--all to God.'
'But what if I will not go back, what if I will not accept your trust?
said Waring, turning his head away from the face pillowed on his
breast.
'I do not trust you, I trust God; he will guard her.'
'I believe he will,' said the young man, half to himself. And then
they bore her home, not knowing whether her spirit was still with
them, or already gone to that better home awaiting it in the next
country.
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