It was morning when Reynolds opened his eyes and looked around.  He believed that he had been dreaming, and a horrible dream it was.  In a few minutes his senses returned, and he vividly recalled the terrible experiences through which he had recently passed.  But where was he?  What had happened to him?  Why was he not yet upon the raft, drifting with the wind and tide?  He glanced about the room and saw that it was a cozy place, with the sunlight streaming in through an open window on the right.  He attempted to rise, but fell back wearily upon the bed.  Then he called, and the sound of his own voice startled him, so strangely hollow and unreal did it seem.

A light footstep near the door caused him to look in that direction.  An Indian woman was coming toward him, a big motherly-looking person, with a smile upon her face.

“Where am I?” Reynolds asked.  “And how did I get here?”

The woman made no reply, but still smiling with apparent satisfaction, she turned and left the room.  She was back again in a few minutes, this time carrying in her hand a bowl of steaming broth.

“Eat,” she ordered, offering him a spoon.  “No talk.”

But Reynolds did not take the spoon.  He was too famished for that.  Seizing the bowl with hands that trembled from weakness and excitement, he drained it to the last drop.

“More, more,” he cried.  “I’m starving.”

Again the woman smiled as she took the bowl.

“No more now,” she told him.  “Sleep.”

“But where am I?” Reynolds demanded.  “I must know.”

“Bimeby.  Sleep now,” was all the satisfaction he obtained, as the woman left the room and closed the door.

For several minutes Reynolds lay there uncertain, what to do.  But the bed was comfortable, and he was so tired.  It was good to rest, and not worry about anything.  He was in friendly hands, and that was sufficient for the present.

When he again awoke, he felt much refreshed, and longed to get up.  He attempted to do so, but in an instant the same Indian woman was by his side.

“No get up,” she ordered, handing him another bowl of broth she had brought with her.

Reynolds drank this more leisurely, the woman watching him closely all the time.

“Thank you,” he said, when he had finished.  “I feel better now.  But please tell me where I am, and how I came——­”

The words died upon his lips, for in the doorway Glen had suddenly appeared.  She looked at him, and with a bright smile upon her face, came to his side.  So surprised was Reynolds that he was unable to utter a word.  He merely stared, so great was his astonishment.

“I hope I have not startled you,” the girl began.  “You look frightened.”

“But where have you come from?” Reynolds asked, not yet sure that he was in his right mind.

“From the other room, of course,” and again Glen smiled.  “You need not look at me that way for I am no ghost.  I do not feel like one, anyway.”