He sat near her, at the foot of an old hemlock, waiting for the dawn.  The forest and night and storm thus held in their arms these two young, strong, brave, sweet, and rich natures, so tender, and so estranged, till the morning light brightened and flashed up in the serene sky, and sent a new day over the snow-wreathed earth.  The tempest subsided, the snow ceased, the wind sunk to whispers, and the young morning was rosy in the east.

Barton had kept the fire burning near Julia, and when the new light became decided, approached her, and not without some anxiety:  “Miss Markham—­Miss Markham—­Miss Markham!” raising his voice at each repetition.  She did not hear.  “Julia!” in a low voice, bending over her.  Her eyes opened to the rude roof over her, and she started, turned to him, flushed, and smiled:  “Oh, we are still here in the woods!  Is it day?”

“Yes; how do you feel?  Can you walk?” cheerily.

“Oh yes, I haven’t suffered much!” rising from the woody coverings, which she gayly shook from her.

“Excuse me, while you make your toilet in this extensive dressing-room, and I will look about.  I will not go far, or be gone long.”  Going still further up the stream, he found the end of the ledge of rocks, with a steepish hill sloping down to the creek, down which, under the snow, appeared to wind a road, which crossed the creek when the water was low.  He turned into this road, and went up to the top of the hill, from which he could see an opening in the otherwise unbroken woods, and a little farther on he was gladdened with the sight of a smoke, rising like a cloud-column, above the trees.

He hastened back to find Julia equipped, and busy placing new fuel to the crackling fire.  “There is a cabin not more than half a mile away, and the snow is not more than two or three inches deep; we can easily reach it,” he said, brightly.

“Oh, Barton!” said the girl, with a deep rich voice, coming to him, “how can we ever—­how can my father and mother ever—­how can I repay”—­and her voice broke and faltered with emotion, and tears fell from her wondrous eyes.

“Perhaps,” said Bart, off his guard, “perhaps you may be willing to forget the past!”

“The past—­forget the past?”

“Pardon me, it was unfortunate!  Let us go.”

“Barton!”

“Not a word now,” said Bart, gayly.  “I am the doctor, you are terribly shaken up, and not yourself.  I shall not let you say a word of thanks.  Why, we are not out of the woods yet!”—­this last laughingly.  “When you are all your old self, and in your pleasant home, everything of this night and morning will come to you.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Ridgeley?” a little coolly.

“Nothing,” in a sad, low voice.  They had gained the road.  “See,” said he, “here is somebody’s road, from some place to somewhere; we will follow it up to the some place.  There!  I hear an axe.  I hope he is cutting wood; and there—­you can see the smoke of his cabin.