“Do we?” answered she, in a tone of grief just tipped with irony,—­and then went on:  “I believe you love me, Sally.  I would trust you with—­my heart, if need were.  I think you love me better than any one on earth does.”

“I love you enough, dear,” said I; more words would have choked me in the utterance.

Soon we turned homeward.

“Tell John to drive down by the river,” said Josephine,—­“I want to see the new mill.”

“But you cannot see it from the road, Jo; the hemlocks stand between.”

“Never mind, Sally; I shall just walk through them; don’t deny me!  I want to see it all again; and perhaps the arbutus is in bloom.”

“Not yet, Jo.”

“I can get some buds, then; I want to have some just once.”

We left the carriage, and on my arm Jo strolled through the little thicket of hemlock-trees, green and fragrant.  She seemed unusually strong.  I began to hope.  After much searching, we found the budded flowers; she loved most of all wild blossoms; no scent breathed from the closed petals; they were not yet kissed by the odor-giving south-wind into life and expression; but Jo looked at them with sad, far-reaching eyes.  I think she silently said good-bye to them.

Presently we came out on the steep bank of the river, directly opposite the mill.  A heavy timber was thrown across from the shore to the island, on which the workmen from the west side had passed and repassed; it was firm enough for its purpose, but now, wet with the morning’s rain, and high above the grinding ice, it seemed a hazardous bridge.  As we stood looking over at the new mill, listening to the slight stir within it, apparently the setting to rights by some lingering workman of such odds and ends as remain after finishing the great whole of such a building, suddenly the cool wind, which had shifted to the north, brought on its waft a most portentous roar.  We stood still to listen.  Nearer and nearer it swelled, crashing and hissing as it approached.  Josephine grasped my arm with convulsive energy, and at that instant we perceived Mr. Waring’s plaid cap pass an open casement.  She turned upon me like a wild creature driven to bay.  I looked up-stream;—­the ice had gathered in one high barrier mixed with flood-wood and timber, and, bearing above all the uprooted trunk of a huge sycamore, was coming down upon the dam like a battering-ram.  Jo gasped.  “The river is broken up and Arthur is on the island,” said she, in a fearfully suppressed tone, and, swifter than I could think or guess her meaning, she had reached the timber, she was on it,—­and with light, untrembling steps half across, when both she and I simultaneously caught sight of Mr. Waring running for dear life to the other and stronger bridge.  Jo turned to come back; but the excitement was past that had sustained her; she trembled, she tottered.  I ran to meet and aid her.  Just then the roots of the great sycamore thundered against the dam; the