but never thought of trying to drink from the stream, whose drowsy voice ran through her wandering consciousness.  The impulse to move on remained long after all intelligent power of directing her movements had left her; and blindly and mechanically, she staggered and reeled about for a few or many minutes, until she sank to the earth unable and unwilling to struggle further.  Her last act was with pure womanly instinct, to draw her torn and draggled skirts about her limbs and feet.  The faces of her father and mother, warm and sweet, were with her for a moment, and she tried to think of her Heavenly Father; and another face was all the time present, full of tenderness and love; and then all faded into oblivion, blank and utter ...

What was it? something whispered, or seemed to whisper in her heart as vague consciousness returned, unutterably sweet; was it the voice of an angel coming to bear her hence?  Once again! and now her ear caught—­and still again—­a voice of earth, clear; and it had power to start her up from under the snow, that was surely weaving and thickening her virgin winding-sheet.  God in heaven! once again!  Strong, clear and powerful, it pealed through the arches of the forest, overtopping the tempest.  It was a voice she knew, and if aught might, it would have called her back from death; as now, from a deadly swoon.

And once again, and nearer, with a cadence of impatience, and almost doubt, a faint answer went back; and then a gleam of light; a broad, wavering circle of glory, and Barton, with his flashing eyes, and eager, flushed face, with his mass of damp curls filled with snow, and dashed back, sprang with a glad cry to her side!

“Barton!” she cried, trying to rise, and throwing out her hands to him.

“Oh, Julia! you are found! you are alive!  Thank God! thank God!” Throwing himself on his knees by her, and, clasping her cold hands in his, and, in a paroxysm, pressing them to his lips and heart, and covering them with kisses and with tears.

“God sent you to me!  God sent you to me!” murmured the poor, dear grateful girl.

Bart’s self-command returned in a moment; he lifted her to her feet, and supported her.  “You are nearly frozen, and the snow had already covered you.  See what my mother sent to you,” filling the top of his flask and placing it to her lips.  “It is nothing but old wine.”  How revivingly it seemed to run through her veins!  “I am very thirsty,” she said, and he brought her a full draught from the running stream.

“Can you walk? let me carry you.  We must get to some shelter.”

“I thought you would come.  Where is my father?”

“I am alone—­may I save you?”

“Oh, Barton!”

“I have not seen your father; they are looking for you, miles away.  How under the heavens did you ever find your way here?  How you must have suffered!  See! here is your hood!” placing it over her tangled and dripping hair.  “And let me put this on you.”  Removing his “wamus,” and putting her arms through the sleeves, he tied the lower corners about her little waist, and buttoned the top over her bosom and about her neck.  He gave her another draught of wine, and paused for a moment—­“I must carry you.”