He climbed into his saddle, and started down the slope of the mountain.  Aldous went to Joanne.  She was sobbing.  Her eyes were blinded by tears.

“It’s terrible, terrible,” she whispered brokenly.  “And it—­it’s beautiful, John.  I feel as though I’d like to give my life—­to bring Jane back!”

“You must not betray tears or grief to Donald,” said Aldous, drawing her close in his arms for a moment.  “Joanne—­sweetheart—­it is a wonderful thing that is happening with him!  I dreaded this day—­I have dreaded it for a long time.  I thought that it would be terrible to witness the grief of a man with a heart like Donald’s.  But he is not filled with grief, Joanne.  It is joy, a great happiness that perhaps neither you nor I can understand—­that has come to him now.  Don’t you understand?  He has found her.  He has found their old home.  To-day is the culmination of forty years of hope, and faith, and prayer.  And it does not bring him sorrow, but gladness.  We must rejoice with him.  We must be happy with him.  I love you, Joanne.  I love you above all else on earth or in heaven.  Without you I would not want to live.  And yet, Joanne, I believe that I am no happier to-day than is Donald MacDonald!”

With a sudden cry Joanne flung her arms about his neck.

“John, is it that?” she cried, and joy shone through her tears.  “Yes, yes, I understand now!  His heart is not breaking.  It is life returning into a heart that was empty.  I understand—­oh, I understand now!  And we must be happy with him.  We must be happy when we find the cavern—­and Jane!”

“And when we go down there to the little cabin that was their home.”

“Yes—­yes!”

They followed behind MacDonald.  After a little a spur of the mountain-side shut out the little valley from them, and when they rounded this they found themselves very near to the cabins.  They rode down a beautiful slope into the basin, and when he reached the log buildings old Donald stopped and dismounted.  Again Aldous helped Joanne from her horse.  Ahead of them MacDonald went to the cabin nearest the stream.  At the door he paused and waited for them.

“Forty years!” he said, facing them.  “An’ there ain’t been so very much change as I can see!”

Years had dropped from his shoulders in these last few minutes, and even Aldous could not keep quite out of his face his amazement and wonder.  Very gently Donald put his hand to the latch, as though fearing to awaken some one within; and very gently he pressed down on it, and put a bit of his strength against the door.  It moved inward, and when it had opened sufficiently he leaned forward so that his head and a half of his shoulders were inside; and he looked—­a long time he looked, without a movement of his body or a breath that they could see.

And then he turned to them again, and his eyes were shining as they had never seen them shine before.

“I’ll open the window,” he said.  “It’s dark—­dark inside.”