“I will sit here close at your side and stroke your face and hair,” she said gently.

“And you will talk to me?”

“No, I must not talk.  But, John——­”

“Yes, dear.”

“If you will promise to be very, very quiet, and let me be very quiet——­”

“Yes.”

“I will make you a pillow of my hair.”

“I—­will be quiet,” he whispered.

She unbound her hair, and leaned over so that it fell in a flood on his pillow.  With a sigh of contentment he buried his face in the rich, sweet masses of it.  Gently, like the cooling breeze that had come to him in his hours of darkness, her hand caressed him.  He closed his eyes; he drank in the intoxicating perfume of her tresses; and after a little he slept.

For many hours Joanne sat at his bedside, sleepless, and rejoicing.

When Aldous awoke it was dawn in the cabin.  Joanne was gone.  For a few minutes he continued to lie with his face toward the window.  He knew that he had slept a long time, and that the day was breaking.  Slowly he raised himself.  The terrible ache in his body was gone; he was still lame, but no longer helpless.  He drew himself cautiously to the edge of the bunk and sat there for a time, testing himself before he got up.  He was delighted at the result of the experiments.  He rose to his feet.  His clothes were hanging against the wall, and he dressed himself.  Then he opened the door and walked out into the morning, limping a little as he went.  MacDonald was up.  Joanne’s tepee was close to the cabin.  The two men greeted each other quietly, and they talked in low voices, but Joanne heard them, and a few moments later she ran out with her hair streaming about her and went straight into the arms of John Aldous.

This was the beginning of the three wonderful days that yet remained for Joanne and John Aldous in Donald MacDonald’s little valley of gold and sunshine and blue skies.  They were strange and beautiful days, filled with a great peace and a great happiness, and in them wonderful changes were at work.  On the second day Joanne and Marie rode alone to the cavern where Jane lay, and when they returned in the golden sun of the afternoon they were leading their horses, and walking hand in hand.  And when they came down to where DeBar and Aldous and Donald MacDonald were testing the richness of the black sand along the stream there was a light in Marie’s eyes and a radiance in Joanne’s face which told again that world-old story of a Mary Magdalene and the dawn of another Day.  And now, Aldous thought, Marie had become beautiful; and Joanne laughed softly and happily that night, and confided many things into the ears of Aldous, while Marie and DeBar talked for a long time alone out under the stars, and came back at last hand in hand, like two children.  Before they went to bed Marie whispered something to Joanne, and a little later Joanne whispered it to Aldous.

“They want to know if they can be married with us, John,” she said.  “That is, if you haven’t grown tired of trying to marry me, dear,” she added with a happy laugh.  “Have you?”