As Connie pressed her tear-wet face to his the pain-contorted features relaxed in a smile of wonderful peace and his eyes closed.
When Donald returned Connie’s head was bowed and she was weeping softly.
“How is he, Connie?” he questioned gently.
“He’s dead.”
Donald removed his hat and knelt with bowed head.
“He died for me,” he choked.
“And for me,” she whispered inaudibly.
CHAPTER XVI
Lest we tire of monotony, Nature gives us a change of colour for each of the flowering seasons. Flowers of every hue may be found through the different months. Pink for May, red for June, blue and pink for July, and during August royal robes of gold and purple clothe the hills and valleys.
The last week of August brought to Summit Lake a pageantry of colour that the Coast region is denied owing to the persistent rains that retard the ripening of the leaf. The deciduous trees were already withdrawing their life-giving fluid from the leaves to store it in their roots until spring. The willow, vine maple, birch and alder along the creeks and lake-shore held touches of autumnal colouring; while on the hills the yellowed leaves of the cottonwood were brilliant in their setting of sober dark green conifers.