So she came upon John Dale's vision, and he started back, fearing that his weariness and heavy heart were playing havoc with his senses. Having seen smoke rising from the chimney of the hut, he had left his horse and sled a short distance away, and had come to investigate.
So absorbed was Joyce that she neither saw nor heard the approach of the man she had put from her life.
Her pale beauty, as she came quickly toward him, struck Dale as almost unearthly. She was within a few yards of him when she saw him. A rich colour flushed her face as she recognized him and her eyes widened.
"Jude—is dead!" she said simply. She thought he was still upon his quest; still ignorant of the happenings that had driven her away from the shack.
The words had the effect of paralyzing Dale. Had this woman taken a life in self-preservation? Then the sweet, innocent calm of her face reassured him. Jude was dead! Every barrier was removed—every obstacle overcome.
Dale rushed toward her with outstretched arms. The look on his face awed Joyce—but before she was swept into a bliss that might not be rightfully hers, she shrank from him. She put her hands out pleadingly as if imploring him to withhold what her soul was hungering for. Dale understood.
"Joyce—I have been home. They have told me—all!"
"All?" Joyce panted the one word. "All?"
"Yes. Everything. Now—will you come?"
To his dying day Dale was never to forget the look she cast upon him as he and she stood alone in the white trackless forest.