The lightnings grew fainter, and failed —­ the thunder muttered off in the distance, and ceased to be heard —­ the clouds rolled down the river and scattered away, just as the dawn was breaking on Wut-a-qut-o.  There had been nothing spoken in the farmhouse kitchen since Winnie’s last words.  Winthrop was busy with his own thoughts, which he did not tell; and Winnie had been giving hers all the expression they could bear, in tears and kisses and the strong clasp of her weak arm, and the envious resting, trusting, lay of her head upon Winthrop’s shoulder and breast.  When the glare of the lightning had all gone, and the grey light was beginning to walk in at the windows, her brother spoke to her.

“Winnie, —­ you would be better in bed.”

“Oh no, —­ I wouldn’t. —­ Do you want me to go, Governor?” she added presently.

“Not if you could rest as well here, but you want rest, Winnie.”

“I couldn’t rest so well anywhere!” —­ said Winifred energetically.

“Then let me take the big chair and give you a chance.”

He took it, and took her in his arms again, where she nestled herself down as if she had been a child; with an action that touchingly told him anew that she could rest so well nowhere else.

“Governor —­” she said, when her head had found its place —­ “you haven’t kissed me.”

“I did, Winnie, —­ it must have been before you were awake.”

But he kissed her again; and drawing one or two long breaths, of heart-weariness and heart-rest, Winnie went to sleep.

The grey dawn brightened rapidly; and a while after, Karen came in.  It was fair morning then.  She stood by the hearth, opposite the two, looking at them.

“Has she been here all night?” she whispered.

Winthrop nodded.

“Poor lamb! —­ Ye’re come in good time, Master Winthrop.”

She turned and began to address herself to the long gone-out fire in the chimney.

“What are you going to do, Karen?” he said softly.

She looked back at him, with her hand in the ashes.

“Haven’t you watched to-night?”

“I’ve watched a many nights,” she said shaking her head and beginning again to rake for coals in the cold fireplace, —­ “this aint the first. That aint nothin’.  I’ll watch now, dear, ‘till the day dawn and the shadows flee away’; —­ what else should Karen do?  ’Taint much longer, and I’ll be where there’s no night again.  O come, sweet day! —­” said the old woman clasping her hands together as she crouched in the fireplace, and the tears beginning to trickle down, —­ “when the mother and the childr’n’ll all be together, and Karen somewheres —­ and our home won’t be broken up no more! —­”

She raked away among the ashes with an eager trembling hand.

“Karen, —­” said Winthrop softly, —­ “Leave that.”

“What, dear?” —­ she said.

“Leave that.”