What a blessed sense of shelter, and safety, and peace, as from heaven, fell upon the rescued girl’s heart!  And how exquisitely delicious to be carried, and supported, and served by this beautiful and heroic youth, who hovered about her so tenderly, and kneeling at her feet, so gently and sweetly ministered to her!  No thought of being compromised, none of impropriety in the atmosphere of absolute purity, came to cloud the stainless mind of the maiden.  No memory of the past, no thought of the future, was near her.  She was lost, exhausted, and dying, and God sent him to her; and she accepted him as from the hand of God.  He had restored, warmed and cheered her.  She was under shelter and protection, and now heavy with sleep, and still the storm raged all about and over their heads, and the snow still fell within a few feet of them, while in that little circle warmth and light pulsated, like a tender human heart.

When all was done that occurred to the tender, thoughtful youth, and the eyes of the maiden were dreamily closing:  “Have you said your prayers?” asked Bart, who had spoken barely a word since lighting the fires.

“Not of thanks for my deliverance,” replied the girl.  “Will you say a prayer for us?” in a low, sweet voice.

The youth knelt a little from her.

“Our Father, Whose Presence is Heaven, and Whose Presence is everywhere, let this weary, wandering one feel that Presence in Its sweetest power; let her repose in It; and through all time rest in It.  Hush the storm, and make short the hours of darkness, and with the dawn give her back to her home of love.  Impress her parents with a sense of her safety.  Remember my widowed mother and young brothers.  Be with all wanderers, all unsheltered birds, and lambs on bleak hill-sides, and with all helpless, hopeless things.”

He ceased.

“You ask nothing for yourself, Barton,” in her tenderest voice.

“Have I not been permitted to save you?  What remains for me to ask?”

How these words came to her afterwards!  She turned, moved a little, as if to make room, and slept.

Barton shall at some time, in his own way, tell of his experiences of that strange night.

It had never come near him—­the thought of seeking and saving her for himself—–­and when he found her perishing, and bore her over the water, and found shelter, and cheered and restored her, and as he now sat to protect her, the idea that she was or could be more to him, or different from what she had been, never approached him.  It had been an inspiration to seek her, and a great possession to find her.  It had brought back to him his self-respect, and had perhaps redeemed him, in her eyes, from the scorn and contempt with which she had regarded him, and in his heart he gratefully thanked God for it.  Now his path was open and serene, although unwarmed and unlighted with this precious love, and so, in the heart of the forest, in the soul of the night, in the bosom of the tempest, he had brought life and hope and peace and rest to her, and an angel could not have done it with a purer self-abnegation.