Only those soft, booming bells in her brain were real.
Shooting the Rapids of Carillon was the bridge by which she passed from the world she had left to this other.

Her girlhood was ended--wondering, hovering, unrealizing girlhood.

This adventure was the outward sign, the rite in the Lodge of Life which passed her from one degree of being to another.
She was safe; but now as her canoe shot onward to the town of Carillon, her senses again grew faint.

Again she felt the buffeting mist, again her face was muffled in smothering folds; again great hands reached out towards her; again her eyes were drawn into a stupefying darkness; but now there was no will to fight, no energy to resist.

The paddle lay inert in her fingers, her head drooped.