“The terrible thing about me?”

“The unfortunate thing and the great sorrow which has come to you, and the suffering—­yes, Carlia, I know.”

“I can’t understand your saying that.”

“But I understand.”

“Who told you?”

“Mrs. Whitman.”

“Have you been there?”

“Yes.”

“Dorian!” She stared past him through the open window into the western sky.  The upper disk of the sun sank slowly behind the purple mountain.  The flaming underlining of a cloud reflected on the open water of the marshland and faintly into the room and on to the pale face of the girl.  Presently, she arose, swayed and held out her arms as if she was falling.  Dorian caught her.  Tears, long pent up, save in her own lonely hours, now broke as a torrent from her eyes, and her body shook in sobs.  Gone was her reserve now, her holding him away, her power of resistance.  She lay supinely in his arms, and he held her close.  O, how good it was to cry thus!  O, what a haven of rest!  Would the tears and sobs never cease?...  The sun was down, the color faded from the sky, a big shadow enveloped the earth.

Then when she became quieter, she freed her arms, reached up and clasped her hands behind his neck, clinging to him as if she never wanted to leave him.  Neither could speak.  He stroked her hair, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, wiped away her tears, unaware of those which ran unhindered down his own face....

“Carlia, my darling, Carlia,” he breathed.

“Dorian, Oh, Dorian, how—­good—­you—­are!”

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

It was a day in June—­nearly a year from the time of the “understanding”—­a day made more beautiful because of its being in the mountains and on a Sunday afternoon.  Dorian and Carlia lived in the midst of its rarity, seated as they were on the grassy hill-side overlooking the dry-land farms near at hand and the valley below, through which tumbled the brook.  The wild odor of hill plants mingled with the pungent fragrance of choke-cherry blossoms.  The air was as clear as crystal.  The mountains stood about them in silent, solemn watchfulness, strong and sure as the ages.  The red glowed in Carlia’s lips again, and the roses in her cheeks.  The careworn look was gone from her face.  Peace had come into her heart, peace with herself, with the man she loved, and with God.

Dorian pointed out to her where the wild strawberries grew down in the valley, and where the best service berries could be found on the hills.  He told her how the singing creek had, when he was alone in the hills, echoed all his varied moods.

Then they were silent for a time, letting the contentment of their love suffice.  For now all barriers between these two were down.  There was no thought they could not share, no joy neither trouble they could not meet together.  However, they were very careful of each other; their present peace and content had not easily been reached.  They had come “up through great tribulation,” even thus far in their young lives.  The period of their purification seemed now to be drawing to a close, and they were entering upon a season of rest for the soul.