On a knoll he stood in the golden sun and looked about him.

He set his pack down and stood with bared head, a whispering of cool wind in his hair.

If Mary Standish could have lived to see _this_! He stretched out his arms, as if pointing for her eyes to follow, and her name was in his heart and whispering on his silent lips.

Immeasurable the tundras reached ahead of him--rolling, sweeping, treeless, green and golden and a glory of flowers, athrill with a life no forest land had ever known.

Under his feet was a crush of forget-me-nots and of white and purple violets, their sweet perfume filling his lungs as he breathed.